


Too Rigid A Restraint

by felix814



Category: Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: F/M, Gen, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Canon, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:42:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27195286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felix814/pseuds/felix814
Summary: “Women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for their faculties, and a field for their efforts as much as their brothers do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation, precisely as men would suffer; and it is narrow-minded in their more privileged fellow-creatures to say that they ought to confine themselves to making puddings and knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and embroidering bags.”~ Charlotte BronteCaroline Bingley finds Colonel Fitzwilliam extremely irritating, until circumstances force them to spend several days in a coach together. Over time, she learns to dislike him a little less.
Relationships: Caroline Bingley/Colonel Fitzwilliam
Comments: 7
Kudos: 34
Collections: Fic In A Box





	Too Rigid A Restraint

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Melacka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melacka/gifts).



Caroline entered the drawing-room, and frowned momentarily in irritation at seeing Colonel Fitzwilliam sitting alone with a newspaper. He had seen her also; she could not now turn and walk out without being unpardonably rude. Resigning herself to it, she sat in an adjacent chair and prepared herself to be polite. 

He folded his paper and directed a good-natured smile at her. “Are you enjoying the day, Miss Bingley?”

His conversation was pleasant and inoffensive, much like his person. She inwardly consigned him to the devil. He had been a guest of the Wainbury’s before her arrival; they had been eight days in the same house, had partaken in numerous meals, walks and card games together, and Caroline was sure that she did not like him at all.

It was difficult to identify a reason, but then she was hardly interested in doing so. As a younger son with little fortune and little prospects, it was not considered particularly important to cultivate his notice or attempt to overcome her somewhat absent dislike. Hoping that he would soon return to his paper, she answered briefly but politely with some details of the day. 

“James--Captain Wainbury, I should say--was talking of setting up an expedition to Newcastle in a few days. That might be agreeable, might it not?”

She assented with feigned enthusiasm. As an elegant, handsome, and wealthy son of a respectable Northumberland family, Miss Wainbury’s brother was precisely the person whom she had come north to meet. Sophia Wainbury was only too eager to make the introduction, and Caroline had considered her general sketch of ‘darling James’ to be extremely interesting -- until she had made the long trek north and actually met him. The self-satisfied, lazy man who had shown himself largely indifferent to her presence was assuredly not worth her spending Christmas in this rural wretchedness. Certainly, Villiers Court was a palatial enough establishment, but the closest town was Stamfordham, barely more than a country village. 

“I like Newcastle,” said the colonel cheerily.

It was certainly not worth her time, considering the rest of the company. 

“I am not familiar with the town, sir,” she responded coolly. Pray god, she thought, he doesn’t embark on an exhaustive description of the place, with the aim of rectifying my ignorance. In an effort to forestall this, she asked quickly, “Sophia mentioned that you received a letter this morning. I hope your friends are well.”

He paused and looked at her with an expression that was slightly disconcerting. It felt almost like he was taking her measure. “I did hear from my cousin Mr Darcy; as he is a friend of yours I can have no scruple in assuring you that he and his family are in perfect health.”

“How gratifying.”

“Mrs Darcy is in particularly good spirits at present, as her father is visiting Pemberley. Her mother is staying with your sister Jane up at Highmartins; an event which I believe is satisfying to Mrs Darcy.”

Caroline gritted her teeth. “I am pleased to hear it.”

“And I must say,” he went on comfortably, “Darcy is a great deal more amiable these days. Time was, he was always the most dour man in the room; now he fairly glows with happiness. I believe I am not overstating it when I say that he chose the right woman to marry.”

Caroline stiffened in shock. Could this be--was he actually referring in a cruel and malicious way to her own blighted hopes regarding Mr Darcy? Did he and his cousin laugh at her behind her back? Rage surged through her, demanding release.

“I had the pleasure of meeting your brother in town last month,” he remarked pleasantly. 

Caroline was momentarily confused before realizing that of course he could not be referring to Charles. “My sister and Mr Hurst are making a prolonged stay at the capital. I regret that I do not recall her mentioning your presence.” She made sure to speak with disdain, as if the colonel were hardly a man whom she would wish her sister to know.

He clearly felt the effect of her snub. His eyes were small, Caroline thought, and blandly inexpressive, but he did look surprised and for a moment, hurt. Good, she thought viciously. 

“Ah, no,” he replied from between tightened lips. “I have not been introduced to Mrs Hurst; I met her husband at our club. White’s, you know.”

Affecting boredom, Caroline sighed. “Indeed, sir?” 

“Played a few hands of picquet,” he continued, determinedly polite. “In fact, Mr Hurst had quite a good run at the tables.”

“I am glad.”

“I myself was pleased to have the chance of testing my skills against his. He is somewhat renowned as a card player, perhaps you are aware?”

Caroline remained silent, merely lifting a disdainful brow. She wished he would take the hint and remove himself. 

“Although as it turns out, I need not have worried, since I found Mr Hurst enjoying the hospitality of White’s for nearly a dozen nights in succession. Very good of him to give us his company so long, I must say.”

This was more than a little irritating, and evidently said with that intention. He could not have said more clearly _I think your sister has married a gamester_.

“I hope that Mrs Hurst did not feel his absence too deeply. But perhaps she is used to it,” he added, still in an unscrupulously cheerful tone. 

Now she was angry. 

“For myself,” she bit out, maintaining a brittle smile, “I hope that my dear brother did not leave you quite ruined, colonel. As you say, he does tend to win, and--” here she laughed a little, and inclined her head to the side in a faux-confidential gesture. “Some men have less to lose, than others.”

He looked grim, although not chastened enough for her tastes. “True.”

“I am afraid that his luck on the tables has discomposed more than a few. I can only sympathize,” she added, matching his expression, “with the poor wretches who find themselves unable to meet their obligations.” 

“A gentleman always pays his debts, as I believe is well known.”

“I would be glad to know that every gentleman is capable of doing so; those who live beyond their means, however, are to be pitied. I wonder if, by the logic of your remark, a man ceases to be a gentleman when this occurs. Do you know, Colonel Fitzwilliam?”

He did not reply. She continued to smile at him, a picture, so she imagined, of studied relaxation, lounging at her ease in Mrs Wainbury’s tastefully decorated drawing-room while he sat silent and awkward, out of his element. I fancy that he is looking very conscious, she thought, and congratulated herself on her awareness of his gambling debts, knowledge filtered down from Mr Hurst to Louisa to herself. Perhaps he will stammer and blush, and I will have won, quite decidedly.

“I cannot say,” he at last said, lightly. “But I commend your sympathetic impulse. No attribute as much as compassion truly proclaims the lady.” With well-bred civility, he bowed and left her, a pyrrhic victor. 

That was-- she may have miscalculated. Possibly she had been too direct. She quickly glanced around. No other member of the party was there; no-one to hear their exchange. No one to notice her minor vulgarity, if indeed she had been guilty of that crime. Oh, and if he should tell Mr Darcy! Uncomfortably, Caroline shifted her position in the high-backed chair and made as if she were gazing into the fire. I will appear abstracted, she thought. If anyone should come in, they will see me tranquil. By god, she had been too intemperate. But, the provocation! The slight against herself, and against Louisa had been completely unwarranted. And such a gentlemanly man as he purported to be, well! He was not half the man his cousin was.

Although exerting herself to appear otherwise, she was out of sorts for the rest of the evening: after dinner she was pettish with Sophia Wainbury, uncommunicative with the rest of the family party, and cross with her lady’s maid, Mrs Furness, who had a disagreeable habit, Caroline thought, of responding with calm and silent indifference to the most critical of remarks. 

The next morning she breakfasted late, the gentlemen having left earlier for a ride to Matfen Forest. Thankfully, the absent party included Colonel Fitzwilliam as well as the uninspiring Captain Wainbury, whose dubious merits Miss Wainbury was now attempting to impress upon Caroline. 

“Very pleasing manners, to be sure,” she agreed colourlessly to a pointed question, and took a long sip of tea to avoid having to manufacture any further praise. Fortuitously, the footman brought in the letters at this point and thereby achieved a creditable distraction. Miss Wainbury was a prolific writer of letters and consequently received a considerable number herself. She was a kind, cheerful person. Caroline felt entirely weary in her presence. 

“And for you, Miss Bingley, a letter from Grosvenor Square! Indeed you are fortunate to have such an energetic correspondent in your sister. My dear Julia, you know, is sadly lacking in that regard. She says that the children consume her time to such an extent that she barely sits down to pen a reply to my letters when Charles or George or one of the others begins to clamor for attention and then she has no more peace.”

Caroline waited with practised patience through this characteristically verbose speech from Miss Wainbury but took the first opportunity of a pause in the monologue to take the letter from her hand, with thanks. 

It was from Grosvenor Street, but not written by Louisa; at least, the address was in another hand, and ill-done. She frowned, wondering if their aunt McKendrick had unexpectedly taken up a room in the Hurst residence. It would be strange indeed for her to quit Taylor Hall without notice, but she knew none other at that address who would write to her, save Louisa.

She broke the seal and smoothed out the single sheet, perplexed at the brevity of the missive -- merely a dozen or so lines, to be sent nearly 300 miles? Then her eye caught the word ‘illness’. She read quickly, unmindful of Miss Wainbury’s presence, unmindful of anything but the words on the page and the sudden lump in her throat. The letter was short, and written in a bad style, by a person who clearly took no care over his ink or for making neat lines on the paper. It did not matter. Caroline did not notice. It was from her sister’s husband, Samuel Hurst, and said that Louisa was gravely ill.

********************

“My apologies, but we have no vehicles that can accommodate your journey.”

“None?” said Caroline sharply, standing with frosty stillness. 

“I do regret, Miss Bingley, there are none.” Captain Wainbury did not look particularly distressed in having to impart this news. No doubt he thought her concerns for Louisa trivial. 

“Oh Caroline, I am sorry,” cried Miss Wainbury fretfully.

Caroline did not regard her but kept her attention fixed on the laconic gentleman now absently putting on his gloves. “There must be a vehicle of some kind. It pains me to deprive Mrs Wainbury of her barouche, but there is an--an immediate necessity.” It was impossible to say more. She could not speak of Louisa to this careless young man, who was so patently uninterested. 

“Poor Mrs Hurst is ill, James,” piped up Miss Wainbury. She looked anxiously between the two other figures in the room. 

Her brother looked impatient, was about to speak another denial. Caroline forestalled him: “I am not, of course, proposing to drive 300 miles to London in the Wainbury carriage. It is only necessary to travel into Newcastle, where I will be able to hire a postchaise.”

“My mother is herself deprived of the use of our carriage, Miss Bingley,” the captain answered. He was now glancing towards the door with a slightly pettish expression. “Some small matter of repairing the frame. I believe it is even now with the coachmaker.”

Caroline stepped forward, neatly blocking his approach to the drawing-room door. “There are no other travelling vehicles?” she demanded imperiously. “It is but fifteen miles from Stamfordham to Newcastle; hardly an exhausting expedition.” 

He sighed. “There is only my own phaeton. A perch high model, and therefore not to be considered.”

“And why not?” snapped Caroline. Elsewhere in the room, Miss Wainbury uttered a faint expostulation, whether against her friend or her brother it being impossible to say. All of Caroline’s attention was fixed upon the man, awaiting an answer.

He looked vexed. “You do not drive yourself, Miss Bingley?”

“I can drive, of course.”

“A high-flyer, with a particularly spirited pair of chestnuts? I am sorry to disoblige you, but I do not lend out my cattle to anyone I cannot trust with the ribbons, and--” he continued quickly, seeing her rejoinder in her face,” I cannot drive you myself as I have a long-standing appointment in Corbridge.” 

Caroline was enraged, but silenced. He ruthlessly took advantage. “Your servant, Miss Bingey, but I really must take my leave. Sophia, good-day.”

So saying he bowed slightly, and walked around her towards the open door. Miss Bingley heroically resisted the impulse to trip him. Maybe his sister could hinder his escape. “Sophia, what do you say?”

The diminutive Miss Wainbury gave her a look of panic. “James?” she called pathetically. “James, is there nothing?” It was no use; he had by this time left the room and was determinedly making his way down the hall, affecting not to hear her. 

The next half hour passed in a distressing haze of anxiety, irritation and unhelpful suggestions. Miss Wainbury continued to propose increasingly unlikely eventualities ranging from a discovery that the frame on the barouche was not, after all, in disrepair and that James had been mistaken regarding its fixture at the coachmaker’s, to an idea that an acquaintance in the Northumberland Militia, resident locally, might lend the Wainbury family a military vehicle for Miss Bingley’s use. Caroline briefly resurfaced from her own thoughts to shudder at this last proposal, remembering that the notorious Mr Wickham was currently stationed in said militia. If Mr Darcy were to hear of it!

But there must be a carriage available for her use in the vicinity; that odious fop of a soldier who had just left was clearly inattentive, he must have forgotten something. She was on the verge of making the decision to draw upon the Caldwell carriage, although the Caldwells were barely recognized as a respectable family in the neighbourhood -- when two gentlemen walked into the room. It was Mr Wainbury and the deplorable Colonel Fitzwilliam. 

Of all the men from whom she could credibly beg assistance! I will fix all my hopes on Mr Wainbury, she thought. Before allowing his daughter time to repeat the news in her own fluttering way, Caroline went to him and spoke in her calmest voice:

“I have this moment received a most painful letter from my brother Mr Hurst. My sister is very ill, and requires my attendance at her home in London.”

“Oh, I am sorry,” Mr Wainbury exclaimed kindly. “We will miss you, but of course your place is with your family. Please, give her our warmest regards.”

Caroline waited a moment but soon perceived that he did not understand her difficulty. “My carriage sir, is currently in use by my brother Charles. You will recall that he was to send it back next week, before my visit ended?”

The old gentleman still looked a little puzzled. Beside him, the colonel sighed and frowned. “He is currently at York, is he not? It will take some time for this information to reach him. Have you written already?”

“It is not to be thought of; I must leave immediately. If I can simply get to Newcastle a postchaise can be hired from there.”

Mr Wainbury was looking mournful. “I see all! But this is too bad; our own carriage is out of commission at present -- some small matter of a warped frame, but I fear it will not be fixed within the next few days.”

The colonel shrugged and said, not unkindly, “You will have to find another.”

“I am aware,” she said bitterly, then regretted her sharp tone when the two men looked at one another. 

“Miss Bingley is so unhappy,” cried Miss Wainbury, trying, as always, to be useful. 

Caroline gritted her teeth and pretended that both Sophia and the colonel were not in the room. She addressed herself directly to Mr Wainbury. “Is there anything that you can suggest, sir?”

He considered, absently rubbing his cheek. “Perhaps,” he said slowly. “We do have a neighbour close by, a good friend of mine: Sir Montague. I believe he may have a carriage for you. Let me run off a note to him.”

“I would be in your debt, sir,” said Caroline fervently. Happily, he left the room with a quick trot, pleased to have acted so promptly to help his daughter’s friend. 

Unfortunately, Colonel Fitzwilliam showed no signs of following his host. Stretching back in his chair, he announced his intention of keeping her company while they waited. As Sophia Wainbury happily accepted this decree rather than reminding him that she could supply Miss Bingley with all the company she needed, Caroline had to linger in rapidly growing impatience for nearly an hour longer in his society. The other two seemed to feel no constraint. The atmosphere in the drawing-room took on something of the tone of an informal party, with Sophia calling for tea and cakes. Caroline could not eat, and felt unable to speak with politeness. Every kind word grated on her nerves.

“There’s always the stage,” the colonel suggested helpfully. 

Caroline scarcely bothered to look disdainful. “While I would under usual circumstances enjoy your little pleasantries, this is scarcely the moment.”

Shrugging, Colonel Fitzwilliam stretched out a boot and examined the shine on the dark leather. Appearing to derive some satisfaction from the sight, he leaned even further back in his chair and smiled winsomely at the ceiling, sipping his tea. His entire attitude was that of a man at his leisure. No doubt in a moment he would start whistling. Caroline hoped viciously that Miss Wainbury’s lapdog would trot in and bite him on the heel.

She turned back to the desk, smoothing out Mr Hurst’s letter where it had become crumpled on one edge. If Sir Montague’s carriage was not available to her, she would have to send a servant to the Caldwell’s. They certainly possessed a number of gigs, including Mrs Caldwell’s new and gaudily decorated chaise-and-four that she had paraded by the church only a few days previously. It was a humiliating prospect. 

“It can afford you a merry little trip.” 

Irritated at the interruption, Caroline looked around. The colonel raised his eyebrows and added for her elucidation, “The stagecoach, I meant.”

She was prevented from the necessity of answering this by the entrance of Mr Wainbury. “Montague in yet?” he enquired genially of the colonel. Then he saw Caroline. “Beg pardon, my dear Miss Bingley.”

She graciously inclined her head, grateful to the aged man for breaking into their company. He might distract the annoying colonel. 

“I do hope that my old friend can oblige you,” Mr Wainbury said, smiling at her. “Only too sorry not to be able to give you my own carriage.”

“I was just telling Miss Bingley that she should consider the stage,” Colonel Fitzwilliam added brightly. 

Settling ponderously into an armchair with a cup of tea and a plated cake of his own, the old man looked at the speaker in some surprise. 

“The colonel is amusing himself with my difficulties.” Her voice was a little stiff, as she was close to anger now. If she had to go begging to the Caldwell’s for a carriage!

“Or the mail,” he continued thoughtfully. 

“My dear sir,” said the anxious Mr Wainbury, “while the stage may in _very_ limited circumstances be considered acceptable, the mail, never! You have not thought of the discomfort attendant upon such a journey!”

The colonel put on an expression of over-seriousness and began to proclaim the virtues of travelling by the mail. He was clearly enjoying himself. Miss Wainbury, listening with rapt attention, cried out, “But sir, have you been on the mail yourself?” 

His admission that he had not done so by no means negated his opinion. Adamantly, to the interest of the Wainburys and Caroline’s rising disgust, he proposed travelling ten hours at a time by the mail (‘you can eat a piece of bread and cheese on the road, you know, without having to stop’), resting in a coaching inn for seven hours or so between the legs of the journey. “You would have to time it carefully,” he mused, “to catch the mail when it arrives. Given that it travels at a vigorous speed of nine miles per hour in this part of the country, I am assured that the reduced length of the trip would recompense you for any inconvenience suffered.”

Caroline was doing her best not to listen to this nonsense. Surely Sir Montague must have sent an answer by this time; possibly even the carriage itself?

“And while I would not suggest it for the lady traveller, I believe it could be quite enjoyable to sit up top.”

Miss Wainbury squeaked in delight. “In winter?”

“Consider, Miss Wainbury,” he said in mock-earnest, “you would have to endure the elements, the cold and wind and possibly a small snowfall or two -- but you would not be pent up in the body of the mail, squashed in with the other travellers and their, ah, various odors.”

“So true,” Mr Wainbury broke in. “I recall having to journey on the stage some years back, and spent nearly two hours sitting next to a fellow whose breath smelled most offensively of onions!”

They all laughed, save Caroline, who was contemplating how pleasant it would be if the colonel were to choke on his cake.

“Ah, Dawkins!” 

Mr Wainbury had risen from his chair and was accepting a letter from his manservant, that moment appearing in the doorway. Caroline’s heart leapt. Finally, she would be delivered. She could barely restrain her impatience as the venerable old man broke the seal on the sheet and perused it; surely, his friend would not deny him!

Mr Wainbury looked up at her dolefully, and she instantly comprehended that it was so, indeed. “I am sorry -- my friend Montague is from home, and his carriage with him. Dawkins waited for some time, but it appears he does not return this day.”

Everything was turning against her. There was nothing but ill-luck and misfortune. Caroline put her hand against her eyes, hiding her expression from everyone in the room, now looking at her with tedious sympathy. She would have to beg the favour from Mrs Caldwell after all.

A clink of a teacup sounded and the colonel cleared his throat. “A moment, Miss Bingley. I do have another suggestion if you would hear it.” She glanced up. He placed his cup on the small table at his elbow and looked kindly at her. “How would it be if I borrowed James’ phaeton -- since we are such old friends, I am sure he will not mind -- and drove you to Durham? From there we might hire a postchaise tomorrow morning and travel to York without much difficulty. If you write to your brother Charles this afternoon and inform him of this plan, he will prepare your coach and bespeak lodging for us tomorrow evening. Would this not be an acceptable solution, sir?” 

Without waiting for Caroline’s answer, he had turned to Mr Wainbury and was appealing to him earnestly. “I feel sure that you could not be comfortable unless Miss Bingley was safely shepherded to her brother’s protection; allow me to be her escort.” 

“An excellent suggestion!” exclaimed the old man.

The officiousness of the man, thought Caroline furiously. How dare he arrange my movements without reference to myself? “It is most kind of you to offer, sir, but--”

Interrupting her, Sophia Wainbury piped up hopefully: “Colonel, very kind, _most_ kind and James will not be in the least put out, I know -- and the phaeton is of quite a reasonable size -- will seat the two of your most comfortably with Mrs Furness in attendance, Caroline’s lady’s maid, you know.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam clicked his tongue thoughtfully. “Is Mrs Furness prepared for an immediate journey?”

“A female companion is indispensable, I fear,” remarked Caroline icily. “As is my luggage. Or did you think I meant to travel to London without any of my things?”

Mr Wainbury and the colonel glanced at each other with an expression that Caroline felt she could read quite clearly: _what a deal of trouble it is to travel with women_. She was frustrated, and felt that she was being treated as a child, unable to manage her own affairs. Of course the truly enraging thing was that she could not. She took a breath and tried to feel calmer. 

“While I appreciate your kindness,” she said doggedly, “I cannot allow you to make such a sacrifice. Consider -- there will only just be enough space for the three of us in a phaeton. You will not be able to bring your valet, or much luggage, for that matter.”

Mr Wainbury reached over and took her hand. “You have a good heart, my dear, to worry so about the colonel’s comfort. Nonetheless I think he will not object.”

“Not at all,” the hateful man in question said, still smiling at her. He was not a complete fool, Caroline thought. He must know that she had very little desire for his presence. Was he suggesting this journey so as to torment her?

Miss Wainbury came up on her other side and touched her shoulder anxiously. “Caroline, what of dear Louisa? Surely you will wish to be at her side with all speed, and this, I do think, might be the speediest way to London.” 

She was trapped. On either side of her the Wainburys stood, pleasant and kind and utterly impossible to refuse without impoliteness. Across from her the colonel raised an eyebrow. She breathed out, quietly. It was the quickest way to London. She could not let her prejudice against the colonel prevent her from taking this opportunity.

With dignified reluctance, she agreed. “Thank you for the kind offer, colonel. I will write to Charles immediately.” 

His eyes twinkled at her. “Excellent,” he said.

********************

Caroline’s determination to maintain a posture of icy dignity suffered a little under the discomfort of a four-hour ride in an open phaeton. Even under a heavy cloak and veil, the cold wind had proved highly disagreeable. As they crossed the Framwellgate bridge and entered Durham, she was cordially looking forward to a warm meal and fire. 

As if reading her mind, the colonel checked the horses and turned to her cheerfully: “Although we have not sent word ahead, I am familiar with the White Hart and the proprietor; he will be able to furnish us with rooms for the night.”

She frowned, thinking. “I do not recall the name. I had assumed we would be staying at Alington House, which I know to be the principal inn in Durham. Yes, that was it. The Tavistocks stayed there in the summer and were very well pleased.”

“Miss Bingley--”

“Be so good as to take us to Alington House.”

He looked dismayed. “I am not sure that will be possible.”

She looked back at him with derision. “Oh?”

To her secret delight, he appeared more discomfited than she had ever seen him before. Generally, the man appeared to have a ceaseless well of good humour that he persisted in inflicting on everyone else. “You have not considered,” he said tightly. “We are currently using Captain Wainbury’s phaeton, and must leave it for him at a place convenient for easy recovery. He and I both use this establishment; I left word with his father that his vehicle would be here when needed.”

“Well, you can write and let him know differently,” she said impatiently. “Colonel, I am not accustomed to sitting in a carriage on a public street, in full view of passers-by. Be so good as to drive on, immediately.”

He turned back to his horses and they moved off again. His shoulders were taut and unhappy. “Perhaps I should have inquired more carefully, Miss Bingley, as to what manner of establishment you were expecting.” His voice held a suggestion of gritted teeth.

Caroline sniffed. “All I require is an elegant room and some semblance of polite company. I did not imagine Durham deficient in accommodation answering to this description. And Alington House will do very well for me, as I have already informed you.”

They looked at each other in a moment of mutual, but restrained, impatience. Caroline thought with vexation that if it were Georgiana Darcy whom Colonel Fitzwilliam was escorting, she would not be required to solicit what should by right be given to her.

Colonel Fitzwilliam compressed his lips. “I will obey you, ma’am.”

The man was characterized by a certain genial insolence, Caroline decided. Behind the show of his easygoing manner, he was all arrogance at heart. No doubt this younger son of an earl thought her station befitted a more modest establishment. Such bitter feelings occupied her during the short drive to the inn of her choosing. With what she considered a deplorable deficiency of gallantry he deposited her in the building’s entrance hall while he left to ‘attend to their concerns’. It was nearly a quarter of seven when he returned. In his absence, Caroline had rested herself, drank two glasses of water procured for her by the ever-silent Mrs Furness and become icily furious at the -- quite obviously unnecessary -- delay. Colonel Fitzwilliam was quite unrepentant. 

“A pleasant apartment has been found for you, Miss Bingley,” he said, smiling benignly. Behind him a footman carried her luggage.

It was a principal inn, at least, thought Caroline grudgingly, being shown to the best bedchamber. As much luxury as this town could supply, possibly. The innkeeper had been exceedingly civil, giving repeated assurances that she would be supplied with a hot meal as soon as the kitchens could contrive.

The colonel was still nominally in attendance, although giving the appearance of caring not one whit about her comfort after the long journey, or that she would be suffering an even longer confinement in a carriage on the morrow. On the contrary, he seemed to have recovered his spirits and was chatting amiably to the innkeeper about the best vintages in his cellar. The 96’ burgundy in particular, the innkeeper promised, would be set aside for the colonel. 

And then he was departing, with a slight bow and a “Good evening, ma’am.” 

Caroline reminded him sweetly about their early start the next morning. “I am sure you, as well as I, feel that it is of the utmost importance to be in the best condition for a long day’s travel. An early night, I think, for both of us?”

Unsmiling, he agreed and left her.

The dinner that was brought to her in the following half-hour was perfectly satisfactory, although by this time she was so famished from the day’s near-abstinence that it was soon gone and she was wishing for more. “The White Hart could only have provided a very commonplace meal, could it not, Eugenia?” she said rhetorically, as she emptied the last of the madeira into her glass. 

Mrs Furness assented with a small nod and continued to glide about the room, arranging the bedclothes. Caroline sighed and looked ruefully at the pillow covers, which were not quite to her taste. If only she had been traveling with Charles in their family carriage, carrying their own travelling linens. It was such a _shabby_ way to journey to London, but needs must. Louisa needed her. Louisa had always needed her. Even considering Louisa’s advantage of 16 months over her younger sister, Caroline had always felt that she was, in some ways, responsible for her. 

She moved over towards the window as Mrs Furness and one of the inn’s servants prepared the room for the night. Negligently sweeping the edge of her skirts up into her hand, she climbed into the window seat and gazed out into the darkness. Durham was such a small, old-fashioned sort of place. The cathedral was very fine, she considered, as was Crook Hall, where she had once attended an evening party, but really, in terms of modern convenience the town was scarcely better than Newcastle. 

Raucous laughter drifted up from the street below. Caroline wrinkled her nose. Across the road from the superior Alington House was another inn, of decidedly lower quality, whose sign boasted that it served the best claret in Durham. No doubt they were earning much profitable business tonight. She was very glad to be several flights of stairs away from the vulgar merriment currently underway at the opposite establishment. A shout was raised, from the throat of a man clearly several degrees past the point of inebriation, and she unwillingly thought of Samuel Hurst. It did not take a sizeable imagination to guess how he would be handling the current crisis. But the servants at Grosvenor Place were awake to the needs of their mistress; Caroline had made sure of that. 

She peered cautiously out of the window, noting the smoke stains upon the outer casement, courtesy of the many torches burning through the night to welcome late travellers. There were a number of men clustered around a horse-trough, passing a bottle. 

Another round of laughter from the assembled company made her look away in irritation. No doubt Colonel FItzwilliam was even now comfortably engaged in consuming some of that famous ‘98 burgundy. He would have a poor head tomorrow, she thought maliciously. 

“The bed is ready whenever you are ready, madam,” said Mrs Furness, without any trace of solicitousness. “Do you require anything else?”

Caroline did not bother to look around. Everything would be arranged with precision, that was certain. “No. Good night, Eugenia.”

“Good night, madam.”

The light reflected in the glass dimmed as the lady’s maid moved calmly out of the room, carrying the lamp. There was now only one candle left burning on the bedside table. Outside, the wind whispered against the pane and the moon glowed in the night sky. She imagined lights being extinguished throughout the inn, throughout all the houses nearby. Everyone going to sleep, everyone leaving her alone.

Caroline pressed her cheek to the chill glass and let herself think about Louisa, and her feckless block of a husband. It seemed almost unreal, terrible, that she should be over 200 miles away when her sister needed her. That man would be no help. Why had she married him? She remembered, with unsettling clarity, how Louisa had met him at a Ranelagh evening one summer, barely three months after Caroline had come out. She had been instantly smitten. Taking in a shuddering breath, Caroline thought about how happy she had been at his interest in her, giddy with anticipation. 

She remembered one evening at a ball. Louisa had been fussing over her gown . . . 

“But does he like primrose?” asked Louisa anxiously, springing up to view herself in the glass for the third time in so many minutes. 

Caroline considered this. “I am not certain that men particularly notice the colour of a dress.”

“That is impossible, Linny. Men do pay attention to well-dressed females -- think of how they stared after Lady Silchester at the Farrow’s ball; they all remarked on how pretty she looked in it. Even Mr Martin,” she added glumly, clearly remembering that the gentleman in question had been talking to her at the time. 

Severe, her younger sister rapped her shoulders smartly with her fan. “Don’t pull your neck down like that, it makes you look like a schoolgirl.”

Louisa obeyed with a slight pout.

“Naturally,” Caroline agreed, stepping around her sister and critically viewing her figure. “Men do notice what women look like; I don’t believe, however, that the colour of fabric counts for much. Remember what Madame Vireux used to tell us.” 

Very much in the manner of a schoolgirl at that moment, Louisa recited the catechism: “ _It is the privilege of propriety and sweet retiring grace alone to rivet the eye, and take captive the heart_ ”. Her sister smiled approvingly. Louisa laughed, caught her hand and dragged her to the armoire.

“Ah! Have a care for my gown!” Caroline protested, as her hem almost snagged on a discarded hatbox. 

“But do look at my puce muslin; is it not more striking? I should hate to wear the same colours as everyone else.”

“That will not be the case.”

“I know Sally Blackstone is wearing primrose, for I came upon her buying yellow roses to put in her hair, not that it will answer, such a horrid dull brown as it is.”

“There you have it,” Caroline said sharply, smoothing her hand possessively over Louisa’s brighter curls. “Miss Blackstone and all the other ladies might wear your colour, Louie, but you will outshine them all. In your style and manner there is a real air of distinction, something which the gentlemen cannot help but notice.”

“Linny, oh, do you think so?”

Caroline stepped back and surveyed her sister. She was wearing an elegant primrose crepe, a creation from the tonnish Elvira herself, trimmed with rose buds and silver beads and supplemented with a pearl necklace and silver earrings. “You are wearing the silver comb in your hair?”

Louisa hesitated. “I thought so -- there are the flowers, however.”

“It is Birmingham silver.”

“The comb, then.”

She tripped yet again to the glass and appeared at last to be pleased with what she saw. “I believe he does like primrose,” she said to herself.

Caroline, adjusting her own necklace, ignored the remark. It had been nearly a week since her elder sister had met the extremely dashing Mr Hurst and she was tired of how often his name appeared in their conversation. It was also, she thought, a little imprudent. She glanced towards the far side of the room, where her maid waited patiently. 

No, their servants were discreet. And in company, neither she nor Louisa had anything to blush for. They would both make an excellent presentation at the ball that evening, and would enjoy every minute of the extravagant occasion. 

Some three hours later, Caroline was forced to revise her earlier, optimistic prediction. 

Her skills in being politely attentive to her social superiors had been severely tested, entering the ball as she did under the chaperonage of Mrs Draycott. The matron was certainly a fashionable figure in London society and had quite willingly thrown herself into the task of shepherding Caroline and Louisa through the hurdles of the Season. Mr Bingley was, in company with his daughters, inclined to speak of her as a most gracious woman. Caroline, who had contrived to overhear several quiet conversations between the lady and her father, and to observe one of her tradesman’s bills being sent to their house in place of her own, thought she had ascertained the real motive behind her good-humoured care of the Bingley sisters. 

It was not that she was a disagreeable woman, she admitted privately. Patiently, she continued to smile with cool civility while her companion’s flow of talk unceasingly turned on her present poor state of health.

“-- For myself, you know, there is nothing that will answer as well as a mustard foot-bath after a drive in the open hour. To do without this remedy is simply to invite a complaint of a most serious nature. My lungs, as I have said, are not terribly strong.”

“How awful,” Caroline murmured pacifically.

“As you say, my dear. Now, to prevent a cough, one can do no better than follow Dr Stinchcombe’s advice--” 

Inwardly, Caroline suppressed a sigh. She continued to gaze out over the wide expanse of the ballroom and the glittering whirl of the dancers at the centre. No, she is not a bad creature, she thought to herself. A little too talkative, but an elegant, well-bred woman who had a fund of useful information about navigating social affairs, and whose person and style of dress Caroline sincerely admired and wished to emulate -- when she reached that time of life. 

Beside her, Mrs Draycott was evaluating the comparative benefits of the sea air at Brighton and Worthing. 

And it is not as if I would have preferred to sit here alone, she told herself. Absent a partner, the next best thing is to be seen enjoying the company of another person. And one as fashionable and well-known as Mrs Draycott is most desirable. 

She nodded and smiled and exclaimed blandly at another statement from the lady herself, conscious that she was trying to convince herself that she was content. It really did seem strange that she had not yet been asked to dance. Why, she could perceive (from the corner of her eye, as she was resolutely not looking in their direction), three gentlemen of her acquaintance walking around the room. Mr Bridgewater had called on Caroline and Louisa only last Wednesday and stayed nearly twenty minutes; Mrs Draycott had remarked that he seemed very much taken with the sisters. 

Perhaps he would ask Louisa for the next dance -- she could find her, now and then, going down the dance with the so-fascinating Mr Hurst. Very gratifying, of course, but it would not do for Louisa to show herself too attached before the gentleman’s own preference was established. She could speak to Louisa in a minute, just give her a hint. Caroline craned her neck surreptitiously and saw the edge of her sister’s primrose gown ripple in an elegant turn as she completed a step. 

She could not suppress a smile. Louisa was so graceful on the ballroom floor. She was always beautiful, but tonight she glowed with a self-confident brilliance that must be evident to every man in the room. How were they all not crowding her, begging for a dance? Were they all stupid, or blind? With a kind of possessive pride, she watched her elder sister trip lightly across the floor and glide under Mr Hurst’s arms. What elegance of movement.

“Louisa looks well, does she not?” Amazingly, Mrs Draycott appeared to have surfaced from self-contemplation long enough to notice her charge’s abstraction. Caroline smiled up at her, completely sincere for the first time since she had entered the ballroom. “She does ma’am,” she replied confidently. 

“Mr Hurst,” the matron said thoughtfully. “It answers, certainly. He is a man much in the fashion, my dear.”

Caroline hoped that she appeared cool and unconcerned. “He is agreeable company.”

Mrs Draycott arched a quizzical eyebrow. “You approve him, for Louisa?”

Her young charge bushed faintly. “It is hardly up to me, ma’am. If they like each other, I am sure it will do very well.”

The elder woman gave her one of those penetrating looks that reminded Caroline, once again, that she was not nearly as foolish as she appeared by her general conversation. “I think you might have a great deal to say to it, if you chose.”

Caroline was uncomfortable, and turned a little from her companion’s direct gaze to survey the room. “The dance is coming to an end,” she observed. “Perhaps soon Louisa will be here; I am sure she will be interested in your judgment of Mr Hurst.”

“I am answered,” said the lady mildly. 

For another minute or so they watched the dancers in silence. The room was a glorious babel of noise and colourful dresses, champagne and laughter, elegantly spinning ladies and gentlemen. Caroline was conscious of her place in this gorgeous room; as a part of the general splendour, capable of being admired and yet left alone. With Mrs Draycott. 

Demonstrating an uncanny awareness of the trend of her thoughts, her companion asked at that moment, “Is there no gentleman here with whom you could be dancing?”

Caroline was on the point of stiffly asserting that she had no intention of dancing when her view of the whirling company was blocked by a male body -- in fact, the expensively-clad and genteel figure of Mr Bridgewater. “Miss Caroline,” he asked with a winsome smile, “please tell me that you are not engaged for the next dance.”

Feeling a strange mixture of relief, triumph and loneliness, she smiled back at him. Sitting tall and graceful in her chair she answered demurely yet directly, “I am not, sir.”

“Then you will allow me to claim your hand for the next two dances? You must, I am persuaded, take pity on my poor supplication.” 

She smiled again and assented, but her primary feeling, as he seated himself next to her and began talking of his friends, was of superiority. He was a decent enough prospect but somehow, despite Mrs Draycott’s evident approval, and the approaching event of her sister’s engagement, which this evening more than any other she felt as a certainty, she was dissatisfied.

Some time later, as she was turning gracefully in his arms to the music of “La Sage Femme,” she wondered why she found him so essentially unappealing. Handsome, wealthy, genteel -- what more did she want? The answer to this question absorbed her for several turns around the floor, but at length she succeeded in identifying it: _I want a man of consequence_. A man who embodies substance, who can assure me, in every word he speaks, that he has an important place in the world. A man of gravitas. Imagining her ideal partner, she continued to dance the measure, smiling insincerely at her partner and sincerely at her sister at the other end of the set. 

The future is mine for the taking, she thought. Louisa will be secure, and happy; what can I not be, if I put my mind to it? 

Caroline awoke, disorientated and for a moment, afraid. In an instant she realized that she was lying in a sumptuous bed in the best apartment of Durham’s most elite inn, and it was nearly morning. And she was still afraid. 

*******************

It was silent in the postchaise. Caroline and the colonel sat on opposite benches as they had done on the journey from Villiers Court to Durham, unspeaking. Some few words had been exchanged since their departure early that morning, inanities on the fineness of the day and speculation as to the state of the roads. 

Now, there was nothing. Outside the horses moved steadily in their traces, throwing grit from their hooves up to the base of the carriage floor. It was a noisy silence. Caroline, who had not slept well the previous night and could feel the beginnings of a headache at her temple, pettishly wished for either the complete cessation of noise, or for her companion to offer distraction in the way of conversation. 

She glanced at him. He was peacefully looking out at the passing countryside, in all appearances dull and content and not at all suffering from the effects of a late night. 

It was mildly intolerable. Why had he decided to join her on the journey if he meant to ignore her for hours at a time? She had much rather be left alone, or as alone as she ever was. Mrs Furness, seated to her right in the corner, was never particularly stimulating. At the moment, as far as she could tell, she was unobtrusively reading from a small book that appeared to be concerned with the flora and fauna of the South Downs. 

Not that a conversation with her maid would be at all the thing. 

With an inward determination she asked pleasantly, “Have you been to Kent this autumn?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam started, appearing to come out of a trance. “Not . . . no. I have not been there since the spring.”

“I understood you were in quite regular attendance upon Lady Catherine de Bourgh.”

He was looking at her in an odd way, she considered. It was almost rude.

“Are you acquainted with my aunt, Miss Bingley?” he asked mildly. 

In a moment she recognized her mistake and almost coloured with embarrassment. Thankfully, she had been well trained in keeping her composure. “I am not. I believe it was . . . Georgiana Darcy who mentioned your visits. She is a great friend of mine,” she added defensively.

“Georgiana Darcy,” he said, smiling. “Of course.”

Feeling that she needed to recover her position, Caroline decided to behave as if she and Georgiana often spoke about members of their extended family. “She sees Lady Catherine herself but rarely, I know; although of course she is fond of her aunt and her cousin Anne.”

“Is that so? I had not known that. What with Miss de Burgh being kept cloistered at Rosings and Miss Darcy scarcely ever leaving Derbyshire, I would have thought it difficult for a close relationship to be maintained.”

“She is not always at Pemberley,” argued Caroline, nettled.

He assented, with a shrug that told her he did not actually agree with her. “Darcy has not yet even permitted her a London season, although I expect she will, as planned, make her come-out this April.” 

“I will be delighted to see her at the London assemblies.” With a little effort, Caroline continued in this vein for a minute or so. It would be pleasant to see Georgiana again, and in London. She could give her guidance as to the latest fashions, attend her presentation at court. A cheering prospect, even if at this moment she felt something akin to dread. There was something implicitly disquieting in her visualization of the months ahead. 

The colonel was looking fond, smiling at some inward thought. “She is not entirely free from anxiety about the event. I am sure, however, that she will be a success.” 

Caroline felt suddenly chilled. Of course, that was what it was. Georgiana was nearly seven years younger than herself: it had been all of eight years since her own first Season, and still, she was unfixed in the world. This coming spring might prove to be painful if she could not find an eligible partner. She had already been disappointed over Darcy.

She realized that she had stopped speaking. Quickly, she looked again at Colonel Fitzwilliam, apprehensive lest her feelings had been betrayed in her face. He was still attending politely -- he was about to speak, possibly to make a kind allusion to her own notable lack of success. Unbearable! She hurried on. 

“At least Miss Darcy has seen something of the world, travelled a little, although remains a little shy of society. For I remember now,” she added triumphantly, “two years ago she spent the summer in Ramsgate.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam appeared to stiffen. He was no longer smiling. 

“And I believe she visited Rosings Park during that occasion; it is no great distance, I think.”

The man opposite her stirred, clasping and then unclasping his hands. “Miss Darcy has described to you her stay at Ramsgate?” He seemed to speak lightly, although she thought she detected anxiety in his voice.

“At some length,” Caroline lied. Georgiana had barely mentioned the incident; had seemed not to wish to discuss it. She really was very childishly shy at times. “Apparently she found the sea air very congenial. Perhaps she and Mr Darcy will take a house there this summer, or in Brighton?”

He was watching her narrowly, almost frowning. “I do not think it. Mrs Darcy, you know, is not fond of the seaside.”

Caroline was vexed at the mention of Eizabeth Darcy, and said, more maliciously than she had intended, ”Of course, I had not considered. I blush for my mistake, truly; naturally Mrs Darcy would have no fond associations with Brighton!”

“Indeed?” he said coolly.

“It can hardly be a pleasant thing to recall the place, and the ah-- _distressing_ conditions under which her sister became,” she dropped her voice to a whisper, ”Mrs Wickham.” Caroline smiled victoriously, having mentally put the pert Eliza Bennet in her place. 

The comment had produced a remarkable effect upon her companion, whom she could have thought was almost angry. So passionate in defence of Miss Elizabeth? She had heard, last year, that the colonel had been very attentive to her when they had met at Rosings. 

Charles, although never to be absolutely relied on as a source of information, had exclaimed his sympathies that Darcy’s cousin was not in a position to address himself to a girl of such meagre fortune. He had, Caroline recalled, been tediously melancholy on the subject of thwarted love all that winter and into the following spring had frequently bemoaned the difficulties afflicting parted lovers. It had made him very poor company. But had he been right in diagnosing the colonel as lovelorn? If so, the soldier’s continued regard would provide an excellent piece of gossip in town; Louisa would be thrilled to hear about it. 

The man in question was angry, certainly, and his next words proved that the reputation of dear Eliza’s family was a chief concern with him: “I hope, Miss Bingley, that you will refrain from discussing any situation so -- indelicate -- as a planned elopement. Such a subject can hardly be appropriate, and would give considerable pain to your friend!”

Incensed over his daring to criticize her conduct, Caroline gasped, “Lydia Wickham, a friend of mine? You must be mad!”

“Lydia? No, I did not--”

“That is, I apologise for my intemperate language,” Caroline hurried on angrily, “but really; the affair has been well known in town for over a year. I scarcely think you can call back her character at this point, although naturally I do not mention it. The mere remembrance that Darcy, and Georgiana of course, are connected to the girl through Elizabeth is a grievous circumstance.”

Her pent-up feelings a little relieved, she sat back on the bench and readjusted her skirts. Opposite from her, Colonel Fitzwilliam appeared confused.

“I deeply pity Mrs Darcy,” Caroline continued, virtuously. “She must feel it keenly.”

“. . . Yes,” said the man slowly, as if thinking. He sat for a few moments more, frowning puzzledly at her. She stared back, cool and composed.

All at once he shook his head and smiled at her. It was annoying to see. “At all events, I will be in London for the Season, to make sure Miss Darcy is well looked after, and entertained.”

“I am filled with joy to hear it,” she replied tartly.

“It is not difficult to amuse her, though.” He was smiling thoughtfully again, giving Caroline the unwelcome impression that he had dismissed her from his attention even while speaking to her. “She would be happy enough with a book, as a visit to a ball or the opera.” 

“She is a great reader,” Caroline agreed sourly.

“A trait all truly accomplished ladies must share,” he said cheerfully. “And I apologise, ma’am, from keeping you from the enjoyment of your book with my chatter. Please, do not let me disturb you again.”

With chagrin, Caroline felt the force of a deliberate snub, although done with such seeming sweetness that there was no possible way she could answer him. Unwillingly, she turned her attention back to her book. 

“Only 40 more miles to go,” the colonel noted, himself returning to peer out of the window. 

Caroline glared down at her book. She thought: I have been plagued all my life with this nonsense. Heaven knows that I don’t wish to speak to the man, but trapped as we are together in this carriage for hour upon hour, what else is there to do? She glanced across at Mrs Furness, who had throughout the whole exchange continued to appear absorbed in her book. 

An enviable talent, Caroline tried to not think. Sometimes her maid’s still grace almost felt like a reproach. She remembered an occasion some years ago when she had announced herself to her father to be a ‘good reader’ and had subsequently been forced to spend a considerable amount of time sitting quietly in the library with a terribly uninteresting book of sermons. Her father had approved of sermons, for young ladies. 

“Not novels, you see,” Mr Bingley had said with decision, to a visiting friend. “Certainly not those; but a book of sermons is an ideal companion for my daughters.” 

“Well, as to that, there might not be so much harm in a novel,” Mr Farnham had temporized. 

Mr Bingley had looked shocked.

“As long as it is not too often a thing to be indulged in,” the other man had explained. “Sweets, you know, are permitted to children on occasion, and it is only when eaten in too much profusion that the child becomes ill.” He had seemed pleased with himself for thinking of the analogy, and smiled upon Caroline, at that moment sitting quietly by the window.

At seventeen, Caroline had not considered herself a child, and the image Mr Farnham’s words conjured in her mind, of a fat, sticky infant over-excited with sugar (there were a number of children of this type in the neighbourhood to use as a model) gave her a certain dislike of the country rector. Still, she was careful not to betray herself and had given Mr Farnham a small answering smile in return.

Mr Bingley had looked grave, shaking his head. “I fear you are too permissive, sir. I would be unhappy to think that my children -- my daughters -- were interested in such stuff as Mrs Burney or that Wollstonecraft creature produces. Fiction, you now, and make-believe fancies can be so dangerous.”

Sitting in the swaying carriage, determined not to raise her eyes from her book and turning pages at random, unread, Caroline remembered how anxious she had been to present herself as the very model of a virtuously feminine reader. Hearing her father’s comment, she had carefully held herself with even stricter decorum and angled the book in her hands slightly down and to the left, thereby rendering visible the title to both men: a respectable-sounding _The Repentance of Believers_. 

With the sunlight from the window, she had thought, my face will be illuminated as a mask of grave reflection. It was a devout pose that she had copied from a particularly dull girl of her acquaintance who sat near their family in church. My face will radiate piety and innocence, she told herself, like the image of Judith in Lady Silchester’s famous Titian painting. 

“I encourage reading in all my children, but only of such works as are fit for impressionable minds,” Mr Bingley was saying to his friend. 

Caroline remembered feeling desperate and tired, striving to keep her expression serene, feeling stiff in her neck from maintaining her pose. She had been so sure that her father would comment on it, congratulate her, point her out to his friend. Perhaps, she had thought, he will say that I am a credit to him.

The men had strolled out of the room without a word to her, talking idly among themselves. Caroline had waited, alert, in case they should come back and catch her being inattentive to her book. With a bitterness that the years had not dispelled, she recalled now how her father had lingered in the hall next to the library, drawing Mr Farnham’s attention to a painting he had commissioned some years previously, of which he was very proud. A landscape of the White Coomb mountains where his own father had been born; ‘a most charming place’ he had been in the habit of assuring all guests. She had waited patiently through his long and familiar discussion of the painting’s beauty, bored and increasingly exhausted with the strain in her posture, sure at any moment that the men would step back into the room and acknowledge her. It had been at least an hour before the men finally walked away, leaving her quite alone.

By then the light from the window had gone. Stiffly, she had risen at last from her seat, leaving the hated book behind. I went into the hall to look at the painting, Caroline thought. It was one of the most familiar objects in her family home, and though put away in the attic on her father’s death, banished from the main part of the house, she could still recall every detail as if it were now before her eyes. Her father had spared no expense, and the large canvas in its gilt frame loomed impressively. It showed a lake, overshadowed by tall, majestic pine trees. Behind them stretched the pale mountains touched with snow, glorious under a blue sky. From within the trees a grand old edifice of a castle loomed darkly, its exact contours lost in the paint.

She had looked at it dispassionately, on that occasion. Before, on the countless times father had shown it off, she had smiled at his side and agreed that it was beautiful. After, when the funeral was over, Charles had removed several items particularly dear to their father and put them into storage, the painting included. He had always disliked it, and at that moment, for the first time, hearing father and Mr Farnham’s voices disappearing down the hall, she had understood why. Grandfather had been born, she knew, in a small village near the bottom of the lake, nowhere near the castle -- these humbler dwellings, however, the artist had chosen to omit. We never came from anything fine, she thought. But how we pretend. 

Suddenly she was aware that the colonel was watching her. Distracted, lost in recollection, she had not turned a page in some time and she knew that he was conscious of it. He said nothing.

Caroline looked up, challengingly. “I am very fond of reading,” she said.

Colonel Fitzwilliam smiled politely. “Are you now,” he said. 

Caroline frowned, and reluctantly returned her attention to the book. It was going to be a very long day.

***************

The day was long, and tedious, and by the end Caroline was thoroughly sick of her two silent companions. At length they did arrive in York, and with relief and even something approaching pleasure she marked their drive through town to the Old Star inn, where Charles would be waiting. He was all but useless in a crisis, she knew, but at least in front of him she would not have to guard herself. 

The company pulled in at the main courtyard and Colonel Fitzwilliam leapt down, clearly only too glad to be out of the carriage, although he civilly waited to hand them down before attending to the duties of handing off the postchaise. Having been well practised in these affairs by this time, it was not long before he was leading the ladies to the entrance hall. As they passed by the coaching-house, Caroline looked around for the Bingley carriage, displeased to find that it was not immediately in evidence. I hope Charles has been keeping it in good order, she thought, with irritation. We must be ready to leave at an early hour tomorrow morning. 

The inn, at least, was an evidently elegant piece of accommodation, with marbled columns marking the entranceway and carpets of luxurious quality on the floors within. Caroline had moved to the principal fireplace and was warming her gloved hands, happily anticipating being shown to her room where she could remove her bonnet, eat a sustaining meal and greet dear Charles, in that order -- when something unsettling occurred. 

The colonel stepped up to her smartly, a troubled look on his face, and said: “Charles is no longer here.”

She stared. “He has gone out for the evening?” she asked, incredulously.

“It appears he may be gone for a longer period of time; he left the inn yesterday.”

“Yesterday? Then surely he must have returned by now; the servants may have missed him. Send a man to his apartments.”

“Miss Bingley,” said the colonel hesitatingly, “I fear that your letter has not reached him.”

The obviousness of it struck her in an instant. Annoyed at her own slowness she snapped, “Do you mean to tell me that we are not expected?”

“Unfortunately,” he confirmed. “Certainly no news of our arrival has been given to the porter and no rooms bespoke.” Seeing her look of outrage, he tried to forestall her anger. “I have therefore requested rooms, and they can accommodate us.”

“I am grateful,” Caroline said coldly, “that I will not be forced to seek another inn at this hour, especially as we no longer have the use of the postchaise.” A disagreeable thought occurred. “My carriage? Is it here? Did Charles take it when he left?”

Colonel Fitzwilliam sighed. “He did.”

Caroline drew in a sharp breath. “Colonel, you will be pleased to tell me everything you know about the matter, at once.”

“Miss Bingley, I scarcely know myself. Mr Bingley left yesterday afternoon, in the family carriage. Your letter arrived this morning and has been awaiting his return, unopened. Neither the porter nor the innkeeper were aware of when he meant to come back, although assuredly he does, for his rooms are being kept for another week.” 

She turned back to the fire, an angry lump in her throat, worry for Charles fading before this information. “So: he left on a pleasurable outing for a few days, giving no notice as to when he would return. How characteristically unhelpful of him.”

The colonel coughed tactfully. “I am sorry; the situation is an awkward one. In the meanwhile, you will be more comfortable in your rooms. I will bespeak dinner, at once.”

“I am hardly interested in eating dinner while this matter is unsettled,” she said scathingly. “And, I am afraid, very little patience in being placated with food and a warm room while you take command of the investigation!”

He threw up his hands in frustration. “I-- but that is entirely the purpose of my being here! Why else have I accompanied you, but to deal with the difficulties of the journey and shepherd you to your brother’s keeping?”

Caroline was about to retort, with even greater vehemence, that she would be grateful if he would refrain from making comparisons between her and a sheep, when she became aware that several persons in the spacious hall were staring at them.

She could have blushed with vexation. To be maneuvered into exposing herself so vulgarly in the midst of strangers, was considerably mortifying. Beside her, the colonel also seemed to have recognized the imprudence of continuing their argument in a public place. He cleared his throat. “I must go and make enquiries,” he said stiffly. “You will follow this man to your rooms, and pray excuse me.”

A servant was at her elbow, looking a trifle nervous. She must, of course, concede to him the task of finding out where Charles had got himself to. There was nothing but to sit and wait. 

Upstairs, in her commodious apartments, Caroline waited without enthusiasm for her dinner to arrive. Although it had been some hours since she had refreshed herself, she was not hungry. All her earlier anger had given way by the process of time, to dread. If Charles should be in some danger himself? He was always getting into a silly scrape, and had not the motherwit to ever extricate himself without help. And even if he should not be in distress, but simply miles off in an unknown place -- how long would she have to wait here? How long before she could reach Louie and make everything all right?

Dismally, she pictured spending the next week in these elegant, beautiful rooms. Horrible to think of. How else might she contrive to get to London?

All at once she became aware of a disturbance in the serenity of her room. Mrs Furness, unusually, was speaking. “I am a little acquainted with Mrs Meadowes,” she said with reluctance. 

At first Caroline was uncomprehending. Then: “The innkeeper’s wife?” she said with surprise. 

Mrs Furness coughed. “In my former situation, madam, where he was the steward and she the housekeeper.”

“A former steward and housekeeper to Lord Torrington. I see. Is there any particular reason you have brought this to my attention, Eugenia?”

Her lady’s maid looked her imperturbable self. “Mrs Meadowes remembers me, madam, and has asked me to take tea with her.”

“This is not your holiday, Eugenia, I require your presence here.”

“With your pardon, madam, I could use the opportunity to inquire more closely as to Mr Bingley’s movements.”

Caroline bit her lip in dawning interest. It was a good notion, however unseemly it might be to rely on servants’ gossip for knowledge of her own brother. “With discretion, Eugenia?”

“Of course, madam.”

Nearly an hour later, Caroline was sedately enjoying an after-dinner pot of chocolate in the sitting room appointed for her comfort when Colonel Fitzwilliam was ushered in by a footman. He looked a little red in the face, and dusty. She wrinkled her nose minutely, and shifted her skirts away from him. Could the man not take ten minutes to make himself presentable before breaking in upon a lady?

“I have heard nothing of Charles,” the colonel said plaintively. He came to her table and glared down at the chocolate as if it offended him. 

Her spirits immediately brightened to see him so discontented. “How unfortunate,” she said sweetly. 

“I have been to The Golden Fleece, and to The Pelican, where the ostler told me a friend of his might be staying, and up to the Downshire Arms -- all to no avail! Indeed, the only person I met with who knew him was surprised to learn that he was not still in York; he seems to have vanished quite away, it is unaccountable.”

Caroline delicately replaced the lid on the pot and dabbed her mouth with a gilt-edged cloth. “I believe I am finished with this, Eugenia,” she said consideringly.

“I will inform the servant, madam.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam was looking at her in surprised irritation. “You do not seem concerned, Miss Bingley.”

Rearranging her lace, Caroline leaned back against the chair, a picture of ease. “I am afraid you have had a wasted trip.” She was careful to sound a little apologetic.

He was looking at her narrowly. She looked back, slightly uncertain. He had a very penetrating expression and no longer appeared quite as discomposed. And then, in a sudden, decisive moment he drew out the other chair and sat at her table, without waiting for an invitation or asking her leave. 

“And what did you discover? I am to understand that you have been more successful, am I not?”

She was a little piqued at his lack of gallantry but too pleased with herself to conceal it any longer. “Eugenia here has been talking with Mrs Meadowes, who turned out to have some useful information.”

His eyes were bright and thoughtful. “Yes?”

She straightened proudly in her chair. “Charles is most likely in Peterborough.”

He grinned, leaning forwards. “You interest me extremely, MIss Bingley.”

She tossed her hair. “Oh, it was not so difficult to discover. Charles apparently met with a friend unexpectedly, who was traveling through York.”

“Who?”

“I--am not sure. It is hardly important. In any case, my impetuous brother was apparently so engaged by this friend that he straight away ordered our carriage to be made ready and set off to join him.”

“In Peterborough?” the colonel asked narrowly. 

“That is what I said,” Caroline said primly. ”He did not, I believe, expect to be gone too long, as he left several items of luggage in his rooms and the bill was left open. Assuredly, though, he went to Peterborough. Mrs Meadowes had the information directly from the porter who organized his tickets for the Lincoln turnpike.”

The colonel threw up his hands in an expression of delight. “What a stroke of luck!”

She stiffened. Across the room, she dimly perceived Mrs Furness stiffening also. “It was hardly luck, sir,” she reminded him, provoked. 

He gave her a gentle wave of his hand. “True. Most energetic of you, to seek out this information. I am obliged.”

“Truly, sir,” she answered sweetly, “I had no other object in mind than obliging you.”

He read that clearly enough, and looked a little conscious, if still too self-satisfied for her taste. “And now that you know this, Miss Bingley, what are your plans?”

She waited a beat before answering him, thinking furiously. He had engaged to take her as far as York; he had done this. There was no need for them to continue any further in one another’s company. Finding Charles and travelling the 200 miles to London did, at the moment, seem still a little daunting. She steeled her resolve. “I plan to hire a postchaise and travel to Peterborough tomorrow. I will not need your escort; therefore I thank you for your companionship. It was a very gentlemanly deed. Perhaps you will stay in York a short while to enjoy the seasonal entertainments?”

Half-way through this speech he had attempted to speak; by raising her voice slightly she had forestalled this and now smiled sweetly, hoping to hear his assent.

He was frowning, instead. “I am not entirely in charity with this plan. What if Charles should not be at Peterborough when you arrive?”

“Then I will, with the judgment and wit that has assisted me these three and twenty years, find a solution,” she said drily.

At that he looked at her with real warmth. “I am assured of this,” he said lowly. “And yet--Miss Bingley, I do feel that it is my duty to remain with you until you are reunited with your brother.”

It was not altogether unexpected. She compressed her lips. “You are fixed on this course of action, then?” 

He held her gaze. “I am.”

She considered. He was difficult, he was managing, he was annoyingly cheerful at the most inconvenient times. However, it was not altogether unpleasant to be in his company. And it would be useful to have a man to arrange things. I won, she reminded herself. He would be floundering without a plan, if I had not managed things better. It will not be so bad. 

“Until Peterborough, then.”

********************

The morning arrived, and the long day wore on. Caroline was long since tired of coach travel; yet, conscious that her companion would notice if she failed to make any progress in her book, grimly bent herself to the task. A recent English translation of a history by a celebrated french author. She must pay attention.

Many long, tedious hours passed, with very little in the way of distraction save a rather poor noon-time meal at a coaching inn and a surprisingly pleasant conversation about London theatre. She and Mrs Furness were reading, and the colonel was abstracted, thinking who knew what.

“Miss Bingley?”

She looked around. Against all expectation, she had been somewhat drawn into the particularities of her book, which was currently discussing Charles Xii of Sweden. Fitzwilliam was smiling at her, a little worriedly. 

“What is the matter, colonel?” She felt tired and hungry. It was approaching the late afternoon and they had barely taken any refreshment at the last stage. 

“Possibly nothing,” he said uneasily. “I am a little concerned about our speed.”

She frowned. “We are scarcely making good time as it is,” she retorted. “If we are to reach Peterborough before nightfall, speed is of the essence.” 

He indicated assent, but gestured sharply to the view of the conditions outside of the chaise. Caroline looked out. Ahead, the road constricted into a narrow track that barely permitted one coach to pass, flanked by thick trees and a rocky slope. 

“The Coningsby Turnpike will be almost upon us now,” said the colonel. “We should be slowing.”

The thought of what would happen if they met another vehicle coming the other way, was a little concerning. “Perhaps you should tell him?” she suggested.

He looked uncertain for a moment, and then, careless of decorum, stuck his head out of the small window of the chaise and called out to the postillion: “Hi, there!”

An answering “Sir?” was shouted back. The horses continued to gallop. Looking out of the other window, Caroline winced as a low-lying branch briefly struck the roof of the coach, causing the frame to rattle ominously.

The colonel seemed to have noticed it too. Taking a deep breath, he bellowed again, “The road is unsafe. Will you slow!” 

If an answer was returned, she did not hear it. The colonel sat back, frowning at the view speeding past. “He must have heard me,” he told her unconvincingly. Caroline lifted an eyebrow. There did not seem to be a noticeable decrease in their speed. He looked hesitant and half rose off the seat to again call through the window. “Do you hear me?” he roared. 

Of a sudden, the chaise was jerked to the side as they turned a corner. Caroline gripped the window for balance. Mrs Furness glanced up from her book. Colonel Fitzwilliam was red in the face and leaning precariously against one side of the vehicle. He was just drawing breath to shout once more to the heedless postillion when at last they appeared to slow down.

Craning her neck a little to see out of her window, Caroline perceived a small toll house half-hidden in the trees. The gate stretched implacably across the road, barring their path. A small thrill of adrenaline shot through her as she felt the carriage thunder down the road, slowing bit by bit until they stopped with a jolt, the lead horse barely inches from the tough iron gate. 

“Well!” said the colonel, evidently giving relief to some of his feelings. Caroline thought sourly that mere days before she would have been as outraged as he was. Clearly the trials of their journey had inured her to such petty concerns. Now, she was only glad to be able to step out into the fresh air and move her limbs. Seeing her purpose, the colonel fumbled for his own door. “Let me--” he started to say, but before he could move around to the side of the chaise to hand her down, she had descended. 

It was sweet of him to be so attentive, she thought. But really, it always takes such a time for men to get moving, sometimes. And I am sick of sitting still. 

Ahead of her, the postillion climbed off his horse, looking sullen. He went up to the door of the toll-house and rapped on it, calling “Change!”

It would not be a speedy business, she knew. A remote turnpike like this, with a small and mean one-room cottage for a toll house; it would hardly be a model of efficiency in action. Enjoying the sensation of walking, she meandered slowly by the side of the road, noting a milestone half covered in dead leaves and forest mulch. 

The door of the postchaise slammed. Colonel Fitzwilliam walked firmly around the horses and headed purposefully to the toll-house. “Is there a problem?” he asked. 

At that moment the door opened to the postillion’s continued and louder knocking. The toll-keeper was an older man, moving slowly on what appeared to be an injured leg. His gaze, as it swept the assembled company, was black. “What, then?” he said gruffly.

The colonel had decided to forestall the postillion in arranging matters. “Open your gate,” he said curtly. “We have a ticket for the Sleaford road.”

The ticket in question was duly proffered by the scowling postillion. Strangely, however, the other man did not take it, or even look at the proof that they had paid for their travel. Instead he stared back at the colonel, shaking his head slowly. 

“Wasn’t expecting no person here today,” he muttered lowly. “They not tell you about the road?”

The colonel looked blank. “They? Who was this?”

“Them,” said the old man, unhelpfully. “Down the way.”

“We heard nothin’ bout the road at the Rose n’ Crown,” put in the postillion. “What ‘appened?”

Eyes narrowing, Caroline looked across to the Colonel. “What is this?” she asked bluntly.

The other man was looking confunded. “We heard nothing,” he said, repeating the words, “is there something the matter with the road ahead?”

The toll-keeper sighed. “No traffic allowed past Tattershall Thorpe,” he explained reluctantly. “Not on this stretch.” 

“But why?”

He shrugged. “Road’s flooded at Hawthorn Bridge.”

The postillion stirred at this. “Thass’ nothing!” he cried. “We heard as to that there was some water over the road at that part, but flooding, never.”

The toll-keeper was offended. “Think I don’t know my own business, boy? There was no crossing it yesterday.”

“Me brother’s wife was up there this morning for the pigs,” countered his opponent. “Water’s gone down enough for _this_ coach to cross it.” 

Exasperated, Colonel Fitzwilliam broke in upon the argument with a question for the toll-keeper. “Have you been down to the bridge today? Have you seen the flooding?”

“Was told,” the man said rebelliously. “Was told not to let persons though and I won’t. Might be danger, down there.”

“Might!” piped up the postillion again. “So you ain’t been down there today?”

“Quiet,” said the colonel sharply. To the toll-keeper: “Perhaps the road is clear now, and you have simply not been informed yet?” 

Caroline saw the old man hesitate for a moment and then stiffen, his whole body expressing obstinacy. “No one goes through,” was all he would say.

Having replaced the postillion in one half of the quarrel, the colonel appeared just as willing to argue the point, as if digging in for a prolonged siege. “Consider, my good sir, how easy this whole business will be for you,” he cried in a spurt of temper. “If we encounter too much obstruction on the road ahead, we will have to return and necessarily inform you. If not, you may consider the road safe for other travellers.”

“No one goes through,” was all he would say. 

“Oh, come sir!”

“I have my orders.”

“Your orders are obsolete; as evidenced from this--this man, Blake, was it?”

The postillion agreed to his name but otherwise refused to comment, standing with his hand on the head of the lead horse and casually scratching her head. The surly toll-keeper, for whom Caroline was conceiving a thriving dislike, shook his head and rapped his fist on the wall of the cottage, stolidly maintaining his position. “No one through.”

The argument went on. The colonel expostulated, and the toll-keeper shook his head in denial.  
The air was cold now, and, Caroline thought, getting colder. In a complete reverse of her feelings mere minutes earlier, she longed to be back in the carriage and heading for London. How long did they have now? She glanced back at the milestone, frowning. They were still over 20 miles from Peterborough, and the horses were not fresh; they would need to break again soon for the last stage. In front of her, the argument showed no signs of resolving itself. 

She had had enough. Stepping smartly up to the throng of men, she spoke with a clear and carrying tone, making the men turn in surprise to see her at the gate: “Five shillings, and you will let us through.”

The colonel gaped. The toll-keeper said suspiciously, “Money in hand?”

It was of course most detestable to be put to these measures, but at the same time it felt invigorating. Caroline reached into her reticule and drew out her purse with the small change, holding it up to the failing light. “Do you have any further objections?” 

The man lifted his eyebrows. “No, miss.”

With an inwardly victorious smile, she inclined her head at the colonel. “See that it is done, Colonel.”

He looked a little grim, but took her purse and handed the necessary coins to the now-complacent old man. What a distasteful transaction, she thought comfortably. I would have thought the colonel quick-witted enough to have thought it of himself, without my intervention.

Briskly, she walked back to the carriage and climbed up to her seat. Mrs Furness, tranquil as ever, raised her eyebrows in mute question. “It is all dealt with, Eugenia,” she said easily. “We will soon be moving again.”

The other door to the chaise opened abruptly and the colonel swung himself inside. His face was cold and forbidding. Caroline felt a little less pleased than before. Outside, the gate creaked open, Blake shouted ‘Ho!” and with a jerk they were off. From her seat, Caroline watched them pass by the sour toll-keeper, already moving to swing the gate shut after their passing. They were descending now, travelling quickly down a small hill, and presumably towards the river and Hawthorn Bridge. 

She looked again at the colonel. He was still visibly unhappy. Oddly, she felt discomfited by this, and wished that he would soon return to his cheerful self. “You are not concerned about the flooding, surely?” she asked directly. 

He frowned across at her. “The flooding?”

“You seemed to discount the dangers of any flood damage to the road. Perhaps you are less certain, now?”

He was almost scowling, and waved a hand roughly as if to have done with the subject. “I believe the road to be very well.”

Then what has you all on end? she wanted to ask, but had to refrain. This spell of bad humour would pass without her assistance; heavens knows it was not her responsibility to put him into better spirits. 

A little piqued, nonetheless, she turned away and prepared to spend another several hours staring at the thickly forested scenery. Minutes passed, and she continued to feel uncomfortable with his dour presence, although making every effort to appear composed and calm. 

He spoke suddenly into the silence. “Miss Bingley, I must ask -- why did you interfere in my discussion, back at the turnpike?”

Amazed, she whipped her head around to give him an affronted stare. “My _interference_ , as you call it, is the only reason we are at present continuing our journey on our chosen road, and not backtracking through the Lincolnshire countryside!” 

“It was unnecessary!” he protested.

Beside her, Mrs Furness shifted but did not take her eyes from her book. Caroline felt herself, as she so often did in the presence of this man, thoroughly irritated. “Your discussion, sir, was little more than a vulgar argument; in which, I might add, you were being worsted by a yokel.“

“No! At least, it was not exactly as you describe,” he said haltingly.

“Cut line,” she argued, recklessly. “You were in a fix, and I got you out of it, that’s the truth.”

He was looking flushed, but spoke coldly. “Madam, the situation was well in hand. I appreciate that you acted as you thought best, but a moment’s reflection may have told you that interfering in a matter between myself and other men was an action not quite suited to your station. Not the thing, indeed!”

There was a short silence. Caroline felt herself blush, although she could not discern, at that moment, whether it was from shame or anger. She did not know what to say, but the pressure to speak, to exculpate herself, or to argue the point further, was unbearable.

“I regret seeming uncivil, madam,” he said stiffly. “Your behaviour was unfortunate, but there’s an end on’t. I hope in the future you will not concern yourself with matters beyond your notice--”

“As you did!” she exclaimed.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do you not remember when we first approached the turnpike? You were afraid of the postillion -- Blake -- of his letting the horses go too fast down the track, and you demanded that he slow down!”

The colonel appeared to hesitate at this, visibly recalling the scene. 

“There was no trust in his judgment on your part, at that time,” she continued inexorably, feeling herself for once to be incontrovertibly in the right. “No consideration that he knew what was best, even though he must travel that road every week of the year!”

She stopped to catch her breath, before finishing triumphantly, “You are not, at all times, sir, the most competent officer!”

There was a profound silence, similar to the hush that follows the end of a sermon. Caroline was riding high on her victory, which had quite washed out the anger she had previously felt at the man. The colonel was looking at her pensively, a trifle, she thought, perplexed. Mrs Furness was once more focused on her book and taking no notice of them whatsoever. 

The silence lengthened. She refused to look away. They stared at each other, as the carriage rocked and the woods flew past in the window. Perhaps they were at the bridge now, approaching the floodwaters. Perhaps the coach would be stopped, and they would have to turn back. Perhaps--

“You are right,” he said.

Caroline blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

He smiled, though a somewhat shakily. “I was inconsiderate to Blake; I will apologise to him. And you were right, to intervene at the turnpike, with that old square toes. It was -- a home thrust.”

Although Charles had never been an avid proponent of boxing, Samuel Hurst had, and she had accidentally picked up a few cant expressions from his ungoverned lips. She was, therefore, perfectly capable of understanding him. He was approving of her. It was altogether ridiculous. They both looked away from each other at the same time, Caroline confounded with embarrassment, and Colonel Fitzwilliam scarcely appearing more composed than she. After a few minutes she risked another glance in his direction, saw him looking at her, and immediately felt more uncomfortable and yet pleased than she had in the whole course of her life. 

The carriage continued to bump along. “We’re over the bridge,” he said quietly. “I think we’ll be all right to Peterborough.”

“We will,” Caroline agreed, smiling. 

********************

“How confident are you that Charles will be here?”

Caroline glanced sideways at the colonel. They were standing just inside the door of the busy inn. The walls of the entrance hall were covered with soot-damaged paintings of hunting scenes. Around them women chatted and laughed over large piles of bandboxes, and servants bustled in and out of the large space. Outside she could hear the noise of the coaches arriving and leaving the yard, horses whinnying and coachmen shouting for attention. It was a noisy, warm building with little pretension to elegance. It was the kind of establishment Charles would happily patronise.

“Our information was that he was staying here tonight; however . . .” She bit her lip in thought. 

He nodded, looking around the room searchingly. “His flight from York was a little unexpected.”

She sighed. “It worries me that he left his rooms open at the Old Star, and was clearly intending to return. We surely can’t have passed him on the road back to York?”

“I believe you must have recognized your own carriage.”

She felt slightly warmed at the implicit compliment. “The only danger is if he has taken another road. Well, shall we enquire?”

He started impetuously for the hall-porter’s desk but stopped himself and gestured elegantly with his arm, inviting her on. She inclined her head in response and sailed forward. Unfortunately, the information they received from the flustered man was less than cheering. Mr Charles Bingley had arrived late the previous night and taken rooms, but had paid his shot in the morning and departed. Both Caroline and the colonel urgently asked for any information they might have regarding his intended destination, but to no avail. The inn was experiencing an unusually high influx of visitors that week, owing to a public sale of the late Lady Rochdale’s dresses, jewellery and other trinkets. 

“I fancy most of the patrons here will have attended the auction,” the colonel murmured dejectedly.

“Quite,” said Caroline, wrinkling her nose minutely. She unobtrusively moved away from a large, faintly perspiring woman who had plumped several bags down by the desk. 

He coughed. “I believe that we will not be able to acquire rooms at this inn; they must all have been spoken for, some time past.”

Caroline spoke fervently in low tones. “I am only too ready to remove to another inn, sir.”

He grinned briefly, and gave her a short bow. “If you will allow me to find suitable accommodation?”

She assented, and waited with what she thought was quite commendable patience in the cleanest part of the hall. With Mrs Furness in close if negligent attendance, she spent the next quarter of an hour loftily ignoring the unverbalised claims of the other customers to her chair, and eavesdropping on the delighted conversation of women who had found an elegant trifle from the remainder of Lady Rochdale’s earthly possessions. Once Colonel Fitzwilliam had found and escorted her to The George, she was in enough of a good mood to ask if he wouldn’t take dinner with her in one of the private dining parlours. They were enjoying a pleasant dish of soup when he again referred to the trouble with Charles.

“I find it hard to predict his movements, but you know him best -- is it likely that he has returned to York? And if so, do you plan to wait for him here?”

Caroline was gently sprinkling salt over her soup. She finished seasoning her food to her satisfaction and put the cellar down on the table with a decisive gesture. “I have never found it of much practical use to trust in Charles’ judgment.”

“He is a good man,” pointed out the colonel diffidently.

“The best! And a kinder, more attentive brother I could not imagine. However, he does have a tendency towards impulsive, thoughtless actions, and he cannot be relied upon.” Seeing his look of surprise, she added wryly, “You are not well acquainted, I know, but has not Mr Darcy described this aspect of my brother’s character?”

“Perhaps something of the kind,” he allowed. “I would be interested to learn more, from a better source.”

She pondered a moment, scraping the side of her spoon against the bowl. “I could tell you a great many things,” she said musingly. 

He leaned forwards, and the candlelight made his eyes glow in his dark face. “Yes?” he asked.

********************

“For heaven’s sake, Charles,” she snapped. “At this rate you will have spent your whole allowance before the winter is out.”

Her brother shrugged and twisted one hand awkwardly in a pocket before taking it out again and fiddling with the candlestick on the mantle. In her opinion, he looked sheepish. And guilty. 

Carefully, she laid her work across the fine folds of cambric in her lap and gave him the stern look she had been practicing in the glass at night. “Charles?”

Lounging gracefully in the window seat, Louisa glanced between them eagerly, hoping for drama. 

He was smiling with some good-humoured embarrassment. “We are nearly done with the winter vacation, you know. I’ll be back at Cambridge, oh, in two weeks or so.”

“During which time you will presumably be expected to pay for any number of things.”

“New gloves,” piped up Louisa from her seat. 

“Well-”

“Just so,” Caroline went on relentlessly. “Father mentioned last night that yours were completely _ruined_ by the rain. You are also called upon to give a dinner for cousin Matty soon; did you imagine that we would pay for this?”

“I didn’t!” protested their afflicted brother, looking considerably younger than his eighteen years. 

His elder sisters gave each other the somewhat grand look they had copied and perfected from Mrs Draycott, which meant: _we need to take this foolish man in hand_. 

Charles had wandered over to the chair by the window and was looking absently into the night, watching the snow falling thick through the glass. He glanced at the door, then back at his sisters, and seemed to internally resolve with himself that he was not going to escape this discussion without a monumental effort of will. He cleared his throat instead, and looked at the floor.

“If you must know,” he said sheepishly, “it’s damned low water with me now -- oh I do beg your pardon!”

With alacrity, Louisa seized upon his unlucky remark and sailed right into a lengthy lecture on the proper modes of speech one should employ to young ladies, even if they were one’s sisters. Charles looked penitent and shuffled his feet; Caroline tapped her foot in impatience. This was hardly the important matter at hand. 

Although enjoyable as it was to see Charles rightfully squirm under Louie’s criticism, Caroline broke in after barely two minutes with the question she had been meaning to ask since the beginning of their interview.

“Charles -- what did you spend the money on?”

He shrugged restlessly, moving his feet and knocking the bellows from its resting place on the fender. “Ah, sorry. I’ll just pick that up.” He bent and accomplished the activity, no doubt getting soot all over his hands in the process.

“Really, Charles, there are servants for that kind of thing,” sighed Louisa.

Caroline was not to be put off. “The money? Are you going to tell me that you lost £500 in a card game?”

“I don’t play that deep, Linny!” he protested. 

She narrowed his eyes. This was another attempt to obfuscate things. Charles was not clever, but he could babble and meander around the topic for a good long time; clearly she would have to try another tack.

No doubt he would consider it a little unfair, but needs must. She chose her words carefully. “You know that we are engaged at the Sampsons’ tomorrow evening?”

Looking relieved at the apparent subject change, Charles relaxed his shoulders and gave her a friendly smile. “No, really? My word, you girls are racketing about quite a bit, are you not?”

“Well, really!” broke in Louisa, to Caroline’s annoyance. “When you consider that we are stuck in London all winter, and barely meet with ten or eleven families with any regularity, that is a bit much.”

“I mention it,” Caroline spoke more loudly, “because I believe we will meet Uncle Rivenfield at the gathering. He is a particular friend of Mr Sampson, after all.”

Louisa, who had been making some small noises during this speech, as if she wished to interrupt with her own comment, fell silent. Both sisters looked at Charles, who now seemed a little perturbed. 

“I do remember,” he said reluctantly.

Caroline pressed her advantage with ruthlessness. “As we have not met him in some time, he will be interested to hear how we are doing. All of us, Charles.”

Louisa looked shocked and a little gleeful. Charles had his mouth open in a comical figure of wounded surprise. “Linny, you wouldn’t!”

“No?”

“I mean, to discuss my private affairs with Uncle Rivenfield, it would be a-- you could not-- oh, you don’t _understand_!”

“I understand.” said Caroline calmly, folding her handkerchief in her lap. “As our late mother’s only brother, he has a considerable degree of interest in our welfare, and in yours, in particular.”

“But--”

Charles, you are the only son, and may at not a late date become the head of the family. It is entirely necessary that you conduct yourself as a gentleman and with appropriate standing -- is this not so?” 

She turned to Louisa for this last part, who eagerly nodded and cried “Yes, Charles, you know how the de Villiers look down on us already--”

Caroline cut her off hastily. “And in order to do this, you must appear a man of elegance, as well as of substance. Father makes you a considerable allowance just so that you may rig yourself out in the best, and to hear you talk of ‘making do’ with stained gloves and an old coat, is an appalling thing to hear.”

“Didn’t quite say that,” muttered Charles sulkily. “I don’t need a lecture on this, Linny.”

“Would you like one from Uncle Rivenfield?”

A small quiet descended on the gathered siblings for several prolonged moments. Louisa was, to see her face, highly entertained by the whole spectacle. Charles was uncomfortable, and Caroline felt that the issue was of too much import to drop, or make light of.

“I don’t-- please don’t mention anything of the kind to our uncle. I’ll make sure I have new gloves and everything for the rest of our winter parties. Promise.” He was clearly not happy, but smiled anyway, obviously willing everything to be fine. 

His interrogator nodded, accepting his promise with a few stilted phrases.

“Yes, but what happened to the money in the first place?” Louisa demanded, wanting a story.

Caroline hesitated. She was not sure how politic it was to push Charles too much at the moment. She did want to know, but it was not the material point now that their wayward brother had been brought to a proper sense of his duties. Across from her in the room, Louisa had perched on the arm of the chair where Charles was sitting and was teasing him in a giggling voice. He was red-faced and exasperated but not actually committing himself to getting up and leaving the room. “Louie,” he protested pathetically, holding up his hand.

Well, the more they knew, the easier it would be to quash such behaviour in the future. “Yes, Charles?”

It took a minute more of questioning and badgering, but eventually he surrendered. “Oh, if you must know -- and I charge you not to spread this around -- I lent the £500 pounds to Sikersby. He was in a bad way, you know.”

“As you now are!” exclaimed Caroline. “What a mutton-headed thing to have done, I declare.” 

Louisa instantly set up a clamor to know why Mr Sikersby, a Cambridge friend of Charles’, was so indigent at this time. Charles refused to indulge her curiosity with some vociferous language, but after a short time again submitted enough to explain that “it was a matter over a horse, but not betting, they must understand, rather that Sikersby had gotten to such a stand over some debts accrued in the Michaelmas term that he must sell his horse, a gift from his father, and not to be thought of except that things had gotten to such a pass, and so-- there it was.”

His sisters received the complicated confession in an increasingly skeptical mood. “I don’t see why he couldn’t manage the matter himself,” proclaimed Louisa. “There’s all sorts of ways for gentlemen to get money, after all, such as Jew King and that sort.”

Caroline instantly demanded to know what her sister knew of the notorious Milk street moneylender, declaring it to be a very vulgar subject and prompting a loud argument; Charles escaped further interrogation a few minutes later by the realization that it was already 8 of the clock, and time for the girls to dress for dinner.

They were dressed, and descending the long staircase when Charles materialized again to take Caroline’s arm. He still looked a little anxious. “It is agreed, then -- nothing to uncle Rivenfield?”

She sighed. “I promise.”

He said nothing for a moment, but squeezed her hand in grateful thanks. “And nothing to Father?”

“I never even mentioned him,” she pointed out crossly. “I’m not going to run talebearer to him about your deplorable habits of opening your pockets for every spendthrift reprobate at the college.”

“It’s not as bad as that,” he said guiltily, and, releasing her arm, jumped down several steps to the dining room door. Behind her, Louisa caught up and nudged her in a moment of sisterly fondness. 

“You could say something to Father. Or I could,” she added reflectively.

Caroline paused before the great oak door, now held open for the sisters by a sober-faced footman. “Don’t, Louie,” she said quietly. Arm in arm, they walked into the ornate room with the great table that could have seated twenty guests easily. At the head, their father stood, beaming at Charles and saying something jovial in his too-loud voice about being admitted to White’s and the ‘fun’ he would have there. 

She tightened her lips and raised her head challengingly. “It wouldn’t do any good.” 

*******************

Colonel Fitzwilliam, stirring pepper into his soup, grimaced sympathetically. “I can understand his feelings.” 

His dining partner frowned, but elected to eat rather than answer, having let some of her food go cold while she had related the story. She was hungry.

Across from her, the colonel finished a mouthful and looked at her with a rueful expression. “Although I can see how it must have seemed to you a dangerous precedent. Was Charles often in the habit of paying his friend’s debts?”

Taking a sip of wine, Caroline considered this honestly. “Not as much as we feared,” she admitted. “That first year at Cambridge, he was. There were so many new friends, who all appeared to have no means of their own. Louisa and I -- we did think he was getting into bad company.”

The colonel nodded knowledgeably. “It’s often the case, with young men of large fortune. Myself, I can think of several in my acquaintance who were bled pretty freely on their first visit to town.”

She allowed the expression to pass without censure. Encouraged by his sympathetic interest, she went further, commenting, “Sharpers and pigeons, sir?”

He laughed, delighted. “Precisely! There are some dangerous fellows in London, especially at the new hells on St James’ Street. I wouldn’t trust a friend of mine at one of those places, if he had a open-handed disposition.”

He suddenly looked a little conscious and stopped himself from saying more by expediently placing a large forkful of salmon into his mouth. Caroline was uncertain of the cause, until she remembered a fraught discussion they had had mere days before on the subject of London’s gambling-hells, and the colonel’s own lack of funds. She did not know what to say, and the moment stretched uncomfortably. 

One of them must make an innocuous remark, she thought. And it was his responsibility, having introduced an ungenteel subject into their conversation. Conveniently forgetting that she had herself talked about it earlier with considerable freedom, she bit into a spinach leaf with pique. Things had been going along so pleasantly with him, for a change.

The man in question was looking down at his plate, but all at once seemed to steel himself. He raised his head and caught her gaze. “Darcy had to help me out of a scrape or two, in my time.” 

She was shocked, but felt pleasantly disarmed at the confidence he was placing in her. “It is not necessary to tell me, colonel.”

Her words had come out with unplanned haughtiness, and she nearly winced. Rushing to cover her error, she hastily added: “I am sure it is a common enough matter amongst gentlemen, at least if my brother’s experience is anything to judge by. In fact, I believe Mr Darcy assisted him once at Cambridge in the matter of a small debt.”

“It is something we do for each other,” he said quietly, toying with a piece of potato. “There are any number of expenses that attend upon persons in our social position.”

“Appearances to maintain,” she agreed.

“You understand.”

“I am -- familiar with the problem of needing to demonstrate social position.” This was blunt, far more so than she had intended. It was so difficult, talking to the colonel. He always gave the impression of paying far too much attention.

Certainly at the present moment he did not appear to be safely abstracted. Don’t ask, she thought. Change the subject, please. She unwisely took another large sip of wine, surprised to find that she had finished her glass. 

“Your father,” he asked, without the intonation of a question.

Well, it was freeing, in a way, to finally talk about it. Feeling reckless, she nodded. “He worked industriously most of his life for his--our--wealth, and then worked foolishly all his years afterwards, to pretend that this had not been the case.”

The colonel stirred awkwardly on the other side of the table. 

She felt a strange desire to say more, even more unacceptable things: he worked all his life to give us the riches and security which he had never experienced, and then tried as hard as he could to make our social position unassailable. And I learned to despise him for it.

But they were not alone; the waiter was hovering close by and no doubt listening, although he properly gave the appearance of being wholly deaf to the inn’s guests. 

Gracefully, after that the colonel did change the subject to something more innocuous, and she followed his lead with relief. They spent over an hour at dinner and rose from the table in more charity with each other than they had shown before. Or is he merely being polite? Caroline wondered. In leading her out of the room he gave her his arm with a genuine-looking smile, but dropped it as soon as he had brought her to the stairs, and took a step backwards. 

Is he afraid, she thought, of being seen to be too friendly with me? A minute later she was criticising herself for judging him too unfairly; it was she who was unwilling to be too open with him in public. This new understanding she was cultivating with the colonel would not stand up to outside scrutiny.

A little stiffly, she inclined her head, and bade him good night. She turned, but was brought around abruptly at the sound of his voice.

“Miss Bingley -- we have not yet decided on what is to be done tomorrow. Do you wish to wait for Charles, or?”

She shook her head vehemently. “It has become clear that we cannot anticipate or wait on his movements, whatever they may be. I intend to make for London first thing in the morning.”

“I thought you might say that,” he remarked cheerfully. “I hope you will allow me to accompany you the rest of the way to London.”

It was officious of him, but at least he was asking her permission, and she could be gracious. She smiled, the expression coming to her face easily as she looked at him. “I would be pleased to accept your escort, sir.” 

********************

Caroline new, sanguine spirits carried her through the rest of the evening and the morning in a mood of animated good humour, willing to be pleased with her companion and optimistic about their chances of arriving in London the following day. They ended abruptly at around noon, when the postillion they had hired with the postchaise from the Green Man at Huntingdon slowed the horses to a walk, stopped, and finally confessed that he was lost.

“How on earth can you be lost?” the colonel asked exasperatedly. “Are you not native to these parts?”

“M’ from Nottingham,” the boy disclosed sheepishly. “Only started work at the Green Man this fortnight back.”

Caroline, sitting back in the chaise and folding her hands tightly over each other, privately considered that the inn in question had seemed to her a meagre sort of place which would of course send a raw postillion on a job without ascertaining that he knew the way to the next inn on the route.

She frowned to herself, suddenly realizing that she did not know the precise direction either. The colonel, standing half out of the chaise, seemed to be of the same mind. “It’s Royston, isn’t it? Our current stage is to Royston, and then the next is on to Stevenage.”

The boy looked blank. “If you say so, sir.”

Caroline, dissatisfied with the witless responses, rapped on the side of the door and called out “We are to be in St Albans by tonight.” 

“Yes miss,” said the postillion meekly. 

“There must be a road marker with the direction to St Albans,” she explained, “or failing that, London. Our road is a straight one; no doubt Royston will be on the way if we get our bearings right.”

The colonel looked at the postillion for an answer, but seeing nothing, turned back to Caroline. “That is a point,” he said seriously. “A marker for London would tell us generally what direction to aim in.” He leaned back and called for the postillion, who was fussing with the bridle of one of the horses. “You must look for a sign to London.”

“London?” he said, puzzled. “Ain’t never been near to London all my life. It’s a powerful long way off from here, I think.” 

The colonel grimaced expressively. “Never mind. You look after the chaise and I’ll search one out.”

Caroline exchanged with him a look of compassionate understanding. Grimly, she re-seated herself in the vehicle with Mrs Furness and waited, hearing the colonel walk briskly down the road. For the twentieth or so time since their journey had begun, she found herself thankful that he had decided so impertinently to accompany her. She could have done all this by herself, of course, but it was useful to send out an advance scout in this fashion.

It was not long before he returned, but the unhappy expression on his face told her that his news was not good. “We are near Bromham,” he told her.

Her forehead puckered. “How far is that from St Albans?”

His mouth was a straight line of unhappiness. “Far enough. I think we will not find our way to Royston today. We seem to have gone in nearly the absolute other direction.”

She turned to stare accusingly at the unmindful postillion, now petting one of the horses with a distant air. “Are we lost?!”

“No, no, it’s not quite as bad as that,” the colonel said soothingly. “We have travelled a little out of the way, but if we can change horses here, we could make it to Bletchley, and there hire a new postchaise.” He did not look entirely convinced of his words as he was saying them. 

“There might be some objections to that plan,” Caroline sighed. “Unfortunately, I believe the Green Man will not accept this alteration of our travel plans. We would have to trust that there is an inn at Bletchley which could send our feather-headed postillion back to his proper place. Is Royston an impossibility?”

He pursed his lips. “Perhaps not,” he admitted. “We must exchange horses here at all events; let us to the inn at Bromham, and make our plans from there.” 

She agreed reluctantly and they set off once more, the postillion meekly obeying the colonel’s curt commands. It was a pleasant stretch of road, winding between dark trees and leading them easily down a hill to a village Caroline could see peeking out amongst the dense vegetation. The road, however, was getting worse. Barely five minutes after their impromptu stop Caroline felt the vehicle start to jolt and bounce as the wheels encountered an uneven, pitted surface. Next to her, the colonel was grimly hanging on to the side of the coach. “Damn this road!” he said, and then apologised for his language. Caroline waved him off; it was not important.

They moved forward in this uncomfortable way for another dozen yards before Caroline spotted the first house and knew they were finally in the village. She was about to remark as much to the colonel when the chaise lurched to the side and halted, throwing them against the door. The colonel picked himself up immediately, looking awkward. Caroline angrily wrenched open the other door and stepped out onto the blissfully still road. One of the wheels had slipped into a hole at the side of the road and almost entirely come off the shaft of their chaise. 

“We are broken down,” she said flatly. 

The next few minutes were active. The colonel helped the postillion release the horses from their bridles and Mrs Furness daintily carried the travelling cases from the deteriorated carriage and quietly moved to Caroline’s side. She breathed a little easier. “I suppose it will have to be on foot, from here?” she suggested wryly. Over to the side of the road she could hear the hapless postillion coaxing one of the horses to step out of his traces. The colonel sighed and gave her his arm. “To the village, Miss Bingley.”

Matters were not prepossessing from there. Finding only a relatively meagre coaching-inn and no other hostelry worth the name, Caroline braced herself and requested with all the politeness she could muster at that moment, a parlour for herself and her companions. Noting her fine clothes and (she thought) elevated manner, the landlady rapidly made way for her, excluding several people from a small, dirty parlour and civilly requesting that she step inside. Soon after that, the postillion arrived, and instead of taking tea and some refreshment in her hard-won parlour, Caroline was forced to barter with the local wheelwright for his services in fixing her postchaise; a task which at first he seemed utterly disinclined to do. 

At length, though, she was done with the arrangements, and walking back into the parlour, flung her bonnet upon a table and sank thankfully into a chair near to Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mrs Furness, both of whom were engaged in an intense discussion about the best way to prune pear-trees. 

“This has been the most inconvenient event to have befallen us so far,” she said with vexation.

“At least we were not hurled into the ditch,” said the colonel soothingly. 

She looked around at him incredulously while Mrs Furness poured her a cup of tea. “Oh? Do you see our current situation as an improvement?”

“Possibly not,” he admitted.

She sipped her tea, absently thanking Mrs Furness, who returned complacently to her book. “Let me enumerate our difficulties at present, shall I?” she suggested, “First of all: we are lost.”

“We are in Bromham,” put in the colonel helpfully. “It may not be a place of great repute, but I would not call us _lost_ , precisely.”

“We are lost,” she continued inexorably, “in a rural backwater, miles from our intended destination, with a postchaise that is broken, and a postillion who doesn’t seem to have the smallest awareness of how to deliver us to our destination.”

“This is perfectly true,” the colonel confessed.

“The only wheelwright in these parts for 20 miles, as he assures me,” Caroline went on, her voice redolent with skepticism, “cannot fix the damage to the postchaise within less than four hours.”

“We are therefore unlikely to make St Albans today,” the colonel agreed. 

Caroline looked over at him. She was prepared to snap, to insult, to scream at him, if he was taking this opportunity to laugh at her. He did not appear to be finding their situation amusing, but neither was he as grave or serious as she felt was warranted. Rather, he seemed at his ease in this dirty, uncomfortable place, casually running one finger along the dusty mantlepiece above the unlit fire, and looking idly around. 

“And now,” she continued, temper flaring, “to be obliged to sit in this odious tap-room for as much as half a day, with nothing, _nothing_ to do, it is insupportable!”

Her companion shrugged and sauntered over to an unlocked cabinet in a dusty corner of the room. On peering inside, he apparently made a discovery, for he returned within a few moments carrying two books. 

“ _Cobbett’s Parliamentary History of England_ ,” he reported. “And _Christian Philosophy: Or, An Attempt to Display by Internal Testimony, the Evidence and Excellence of Revealed Religion_. I imagine they were abandoned by a former occupant of this delightful hostelry.”

Caroline gave the books a contemptuous glance before seating herself gracefully in the wing-backed chair. With immense effort, she restrained herself from glancing out of the window to see if she could view, from here, the smithy, where the wheelwright was at work on her postchaise. 

The colonel was still absorbed in his find, flicking over the pages of the old and clearly travel-worn volumes. “I think these must have belonged to a student.”

She did not reply.

“Cramming for quals, perhaps. I recognise the philosophy text as one that John brought down from Merton at one time. Never looked into it much myself, of course.”

She stilled her fingers upon the arm of the chair and did not look at him. 

“Yes, I believe--yes, here you can see some of the marginal notes he has left behind. Dear me, what an ungracious comment on poor Thomas Aquinas. I think this must have been an indifferent scholar.”

“Accounting for the fact that he abandoned his studies in a dirty little inn,” she snapped, goaded into a little speech. 

“We may be premature in naming the sex of the offender,” Colonel Fitwilliam continued serenely. “In company as I am with such a highly well-educated female, I must acknowledge that the item possibly belonged to a lady at one point.”

Caroline took a breath and raised her chin a little. There was scarcely any point in answering.

“But the state of the volume is a mark against that theory. I do not believe ladies habitually write in their books, or at least not as much as men. What of the history? Let me see.” 

He opened the other book and turned to a page at random. “Yet as the French dominions were before too large, as their power was before that conquest greater than is consistent with the balance of power in Europe, it was a conquest they would not have aimed at, of those who ought to be the guardians of that balance, has been as watchful as they ought to have been.” He read clearly, with an air of suppressed laughter. The pedantic phrases sounded a little ridiculous on his tongue. 

“--and had taken proper measures for preventing an addition to that power, which, before that acquisition, was more than a match for any one of its neighbours upon the continent.”

He could have been her father, reciting the works of Gibson in the evening parlour, while her mother worked her embroidery, inattentive, and Charles lolled comfortably on the sofa. Louisa would have sat beside her, half-heartedly attempting good posture with eyes dropping tiredly in the dim firelight. Her father, heedless, would read on in happy ignorance of how foolish the grand phrases sounded in his clumsy mouth. 

“Do stop,” she said abruptly. 

“I thought you liked reading,” Colonel Fitzwilliam asked, half-smiling. 

She stared down at her hands, unwilling to be amused.

“. . . History,” he added, blandly.

She breathed, in and out. “I dislike it extremely,” she said. Then she gave a somewhat nervous laugh and put her hand up to her mouth as if to force back the sound. Her gaze inadvertently raised itself to the man standing in front of her.

He was grinning now, his face alive and joyful and looking only at her. “Do you now,” he remarked cheerfully. 

Apprehensively, as if feeling her way across unfamiliar ground, she looked into his eyes. No judgment there. “It requires many hours of inactivity. Of sitting quietly in a room,” she added.

“And you do not enjoy--”

“I cannot think that you know what it is like,” she interrupted him, ignoring his response. “To sit and read and not move except to turn the pages. You cannot move your legs for fear of creasing your skirts, or show that you are inattentive by looking around or tapping your fingers. You must return your attention to the page every minute and force yourself to study every line, although the subject is dull enough to drive you to distraction. You could not--I could not!”

Her voice was impassioned now, almost strident. There may have been a serving-woman at the door, she may be under observation at this moment from the patrons of the inn. She did not care. “When I wanted to move, to not feel like my limbs were weighted down, pinned.”

She stopped on a ragged breath. She was standing, unaware of having done so. Colonel Fitzwilliam did not look amused now. He had a startled, open expression on his face that was turning by degrees thoughtful. “It sounds dreadful,” he said quietly. 

Caroline relaxed. “Yes.” 

He went on, clumsily. “I used to worry--when I was a child, I used to spend hours looking at the grand paintings we owned, of these unsmiling boys and girls from centuries past and think they were, trapped. Trapped in the paint.” 

She caught her breath. In that moment she felt that she loved him. It was so similar to a thought that she had expressed herself. Unexpected. What else lay behind that pleasant facade? They stared at each other. She could not now read the look on his face. He was on the other side of the room but she felt like he was standing within the circle of her arms, close enough to touch. He was about to speak.

Someone rapped impatiently on the door. 

Caroline turned sharply away and looked out of the window. She could see their postchaise in the coachyard. The repair work appeared to be complete; the new wheel gleaming in contrast to the general mud-stained appearance of the vehicle. Behind her, a put-upon voice was telling the colonel that everything was finished, and would sir care to deal with the matter of the bill at this time?

“We had to pay the wheelwright a little extra,” the red-faced man said stiffly. “Owing to the speed which was demanded by the lady. Tom Burton usually doesn’t do this work within an hour, but on such a _pressing_ occasion, it seemed necessary.” 

“Very good,” Colonel Fitzwilliam said hurriedly, “very good indeed,” shepherding the angry man -- the landlord, Caroline remembered -- out of the room, continuing to give assurances that the money would immediately be paid. The door shut. 

They looked at each other. He smiled. “Now that the chaise is sorted out--”

The door opened again and the innkeeper’s wife came in with a clipped and evidently insincere word of apology. “Begging your pardon, but ‘ow many rooms were you wanting for the night?”

Caroline looked her surprise at the woman. “None; we leave almost immediately.”

She frowned. “You what?”

Behind her the red-faced man stood with folded arms, nodding his head with gloomy satisfaction. 

“What on earth is going on?” the colonel wondered testily. “Inkeep,” calling to the man, “is the chaise not ready to leave this hour?”

“Aye,” he said curtly, “but there’s no more horses. Just heard it from Sue, there.” He nodded towards the woman, who gazed with pert curiosity at the travellers. 

The colonel spoke sharply. “No horses?”

“I’m thinkin’ the ones that you came with were none too fresh,” volunteered the innkeeper. “And we’ve no others.”

“Come, man! There must be a horse, or a pair, in the village, capable of pulling a chaise? It is not as if we want a team of four to drive us!”

“None,” said the landlord decisively. He was about to speak further but his lady forestalled him. “What with the Yuletide festival up at Bedford on this day, there’s none left in the village.” She spoke with pride, evidently considering the local christmas celebrations to be of supreme importance, requiring all the animals in the parish as a matter of course.

“My dear ma’am,” said the colonel, trying charm. “You cannot be telling me that there are no means of our reaching at least Royston tonight. We have the most urgent need of getting to London.”

Both the innkeeper and his wife looked blank. London was apparently not in their scope of awareness. After some thought, however, the wife did suggest a cousin of hers who lived over in North Crawley, barely ten miles away, whom she thought had a horse available for them. The colonel thanked them both wearily and shut the door. There was silence for a moment. 

The colonel turned to her, looking blank. “That’s that, then. I am sorry, Miss Bingley.”

“There must be something,” she objected, feeling desperate.

He ran his hand through his hair, looked harried, uncertain. “I do not know -- Mrs Bristowe did say there might be a suitable horse the next village over, but there was no certain information. I could ask more minutely, or go myself to find out a horse.”

She felt like sitting limply in a chair but resisted the ignoble impulse. “You are not familiar with the area,” she reminded him.

“Nonetheless, I could do something. There must be a coach-horse in the region that has not been taken to this wretched yuletide fair. I could enquire more closely of Mrs Bristowe, find out whether there are two pair of horses to yoke for our postchaise?” His defeated, uncertain voice showed how unconvinced he was of the endeavour’s success. 

Something in Caroline rebelled at the necessity of asking the innkeeper’s wife, and alike at the necessity of utilising the colonel as a go-between. The woman did not like her. She had resented Caroline’s assumption of the parlour and had scowled fiercely when told that it needed cleaning. She was unlikely to be of much help, and the colonel unlikely to be successful in finding a pair of horses.

Pressing the fingers of her right hand against her mouth, she thought quickly of the possible solutions to this new problem. Who would help her? Who would listen? There must be a squire or similar man of substance in the area. She imagined begging the local gentry for the means to travel to London. She pictured a response: “I beg your pardon, miss, but it can’t be done, not today.” Or, more brazenly: “Surely Mrs Hurst has doctors to take care of her, she doesn’t need you.”

She needs me! I need her. Caroline was irrationally gripped with fear. 

Only this morning she had been excited about the journey. Sitting in the open carriage with the colonel had been so unexpectedly pleasant and amusing; she had even laughed at his description of the Huntingdon coaching-house where the horses had been changed for fresh ones. A charming man, she had thought, leaning back in the chaise and feeling the miles vanish beneath the feet of the fast-moving horses in their traces. She had pictured alighting at Louisa’s house in Grosvenor Street and sweeping up the stairs to her room, taking off her hat with a confident gesture and saying “You did not expect me so soon, did you, Louie?”

All of a sudden things had changed. With a tightness in her throat Caroline knew that this was a delay which she was powerless to affect, which would keep her from Louisa for another day at the very least. Perhaps longer, as tomorrow was Sunday, which would make it doubly difficult to arrange transportation. Queerly, she wondered if, when she finally did manage to arrive at her sister’s, it would be to meet sombre faces in the hall, and Samuel Hurst sitting stupefied, with Louisa already cold and gone in the wide bed.

As if he had read the thoughts in her face, the colonel spoke up again, hesitant. “Your sister’s condition was not thought to be altogether serious when the letter first came--you are anxious for news, I know. I could ride to London-- could be there this night or early tomorrow morning and send word. If you wish.”

“A reasonable suggestion, sir.” She spoke tonelessly, looking at the terrible picture in her mind. It was reasonable. She was being ridiculous. Louie would not die for Caroline’s being absent from her side another day. 

But fear still possessed her, still prevented her from agreeing to any of his sensible proposals. In superstitious dread, she knew that Louie would be fine and well as long as she was there to look after her, as she had always done. 

But what could she do?

A gentle hand lightly touched her elbow. Fitzwilliam was close to her, his eyes soft and sympathetic. “Caroline,” he said quietly. 

She took a breath. Abruptly she felt steadied and calm, like a boat anchored at the shore. I can be sensible now, she thought. And there is one obvious solution before me. 

Moving away from the colonel she opened the door and called stridently to the waiting serving-man, who jumped at the sound of her voice. “Simms! When does the mail coach arrive here?”

Dropping his hand, Colonel Fitzwilliam gaped at her in surprise. It was a good look on him, she noted absently as she opened her purse and counted out several shillings. 

Approaching the room slowly, Simms did not appear to evince any surprise but considered the matter detachedly. “This being Thursday,” he said unhurriedly, “it would be expected to arrive in ‘alf an hour’s time. An hour afore five, that is, Miss.” 

Caroline nodded with decision. “Be so good as to purchase a ticket for myself, and for Mrs Furness, if possible.” 

There were protestations from the colonel, as well as more muted dissatisfaction from Mrs Furness, both of whom evidently thought her resolution madness. Both, Caroline ignored in a kind of thoughtful abstraction, being entirely occupied with giving orders to the servant regarding the room and packing the most necessary of her items in a small case, should her luggage not find room on the mail coach. 

It proved a valuable piece of activity; Simms came back scarcely twenty minutes later, slightly out of breath and saying that his errand had been accomplished, but only a ticket for milady could be purchased, the coach being said to be full even as it came from Northampton. Caroline thanked him, casually handed him a guinea and her smaller travelling case with the instruction to help her find a place for it on the coach, and turned to her two companions.

“I am sorry to leave you here,” she said seriously. “Eugenia -- I know this is discourteous, and I beg your pardon. You will follow me as soon as you are able; please enjoy these rooms for the next two nights.”

Mrs Furness graciously let it be known in a few words that Caroline was forgiven. She looked at the colonel. “I must go,” she said simply. 

He looked a little lost. “I had hoped,” he said slowly, “to have delivered you to your sister’s door.”

She smiled briefly. “Our wishes do not always go to plan, is this not so?” 

He could but agree. They waited a handful of moments for the other to speak; or perhaps, she thought: he is simply waiting for me to leave. Now we are finished, and it would be awkward to prolong this odd intimacy of ours. He smiled tremulously at her and she abruptly felt like her fears of a moment earlier were groundless. She spoke.

“I have enjoyed our journey, Colonel Fitzwilliam.”

He laughed a little, breathless. “No? It did not always appear so.”

“No, perhaps not. I will--never forget it.”

The words were feeble and insufficient. She was groping for something else, something more meaningful to say, when Simms came back to the door. “Mail coming in now!”

With a brief word of goodbye she was gone from the room and the colonel. She left the inn, crossed the yard and, attended by the helpful Simms, climbed into the packed and dirty coach. “Your case is in, miss,” he told her considerately. “Safe journey.” 

She was ready to leave, and within less than a minute, so was the mail. From her cramped position inside the carriage she saw the colonel standing in the open courtyard, ostlers and stableboys scrambling to and fro in the chaos of the mail’s departure. She felt pressed from all sides by filth and the discomfiting presence of strangers, and was conscious of an odd affinity with the still figure, refined, standing calmly in the middle of the mob. It was a comforting sight. How had his person become such a familiar and cheering presence, after only a few days? 

She smiled at his grave face. And as the groom started to shout, as the coachman cracked his whip, and as the carriage gave a jolt and prepared to move, she saw him raise his arm and formally salute her. 

********************

“You did not have to go to so much trouble, Linny,” Louisa said happily. Caroline said nothing but squeezed her sister’s hand where it lay enclasped between her own. Louisa looked better today, with some colour in her cheeks and her eyes brighter than they had been yesterday. Her fingers trembled briefly against Caroline’s. 

“I daresay it was not so much trouble as all that,” Charles said soothingly, from where he was sitting scrunched up against one of the bedposts and the excess pillows. 

Affronted, Caroline directed a meaningful glare at him but was forestalled in her criticism by Louisa exclaiming, “Why, Charles! As if she has not been dragged all over the country looking for you.”

“Not at all! That is, devilish sorry, but you had a fairly straight shot down from Newcastle, wasn’t it so, Linny? Good roads through Lincolnshire, or at least that was my experience.” Charles had expressed his contrition to Caroline earlier, and at length, but was disposed to consider other people’s difficulties as lightly as he did his own. It was, she thought, characteristically endearing and irritating.

Louisa, with a kind of joyful tenaciousness that showed just how much her health had improved over the last two days, refused to let the matter drop. “It’s not the journey, Charles, but the fact that Linny was trying to hunt you down through the greater part of the northern counties, only to find that you had absconded with the family carriage!”

“It is more or less my--”

“And had sent no word to inform her of your plans, just running down to London on the instant.” This last part ended on something of a gasp, Louisa’s voice rasping a little in her throat. Anxiously, her siblings glanced at each other. Charles levered himself off the bed to fetch her a cup of water and Caroline stroked her sister’s hand in a mild reproof, saying, “Naturally Charles came as soon as he heard of your illness; you can hardly blame him for that. And my trip down here was perfectly pleasant.”

Charles grinned happily. “I certainly owe Colonel Fitzwilliam my thanks.”

Caroline smiled thinly. “I am sure that is not necessary.”

She has the unfortunate luck to catch Louisa’s eye at this moment, as she lowered the cup of water and glanced curiously at Caroline. It was a little unsettling, the more so because she had become conscious over the past two days of an odd wistfulness, when thinking of the colonel. He had not called at the house.

“But just imagine his kindness at escorting you all the way from Newcastle to London!” their brother exclaimed.

“Very gallant behaviour,” Louisa agreed, looking sly. 

“You must save your voice,” said Caroline crossly. “Why not rest a trifle, Louie?”

Following her lead, Charles immediately joined in soliciting Louisa to rest in silence for a while. Louisa sulkily agreed. He offered to entertain her with an account of his Jane, prevented from being in London at present owing to her being in a delicate condition. “She is indefatigable, however,” he assured them, looking fond. “Is always up and doing something; arranging things with the housekeeper or giving orders to the gardener. I often must beg her to sit down for half an hour altogether in the course of an afternoon!”

Louisa being prevented from replying to Charles with all the animated goodwill he so evidently required, Caroline was called upon to supply the deficit. Recalling to herself the many occasions on which Mrs Jane Bingley had been kind and helpful to her since her marriage, she put forth a great effort to assure Charles that they both admired his wife very well. She managed her part so well that he was led on to even more elaborate descriptions of her perfection, at which, correctly interpreting a look from Louisa, Caroline halted the flow by begging him to go downstairs and get their suffering sister a little honey with lemon. 

Once he was gone, both sisters relaxed minutely. “As much as I love dear Charles, his society can be a trifle tedious,” Caroline noted, partly to make her sister smile. 

She did so, and arranged herself more comfortably in the bedclothes. “I am so glad to have you here, Linny.” 

“Hush,” said Caroine softly. 

“But I am not going to let you distract me from my purpose.”

“Really--”

“How did you enjoy your journey with the colonel?”

Caroline grimaced, but could not readily identify a distraction. Charles was never a model of efficiency; she doubted he would return within ten minutes. “It was long and tiresome,” she capitulated. “Full of annoyances and delays.”

Louisa prodded her in the side. “You do not answer my question.”

It was inevitable. She had known that for days; had known it since she first began to see the colonel as an agreeable companion rather than a hindrance. And who else but Louie, to confide in? Resolved, she settled herself nervously on her chair and considered where to begin.

“He was pleasanter company than I had anticipated. I liked--came to like--his good humour. No matter what problem befell us, he was seldom cast down by it.”

Louisa indicated in a few words that this was surprising, as the person whom Caroline had previously liked very much had very little in the way of good humour. Caroline bit her lip and reminded her sister with a touch of irritation that she could withdraw her confidence at any point. Louisa begged her pardon, and she was allowed to go on with her description of Colonel Fitzwilliam’s character. 

It was difficult, to put the man into words. ‘Kind but not in a condescending way,’ ‘arrogant but willing to humble himself,’ ‘oddly charming,’ ‘capable of a kind of gentle malice that was quite amusing under certain circumstances.’ After a few stilted phrases, Caroline realized that she had not adequately explained her feelings, and tried again, but failed to explain herself to her own satisfaction.

Louisa was evidently growing impatient. “But do you love him?” she asked intently.

Caroline shut her eyes, desperately thinking. This was one of the questions that had been recurring to her endlessly since she had parted from him in Bromham. She liked him. He was good company. He appeared to like her as well. What did this all come to?

She could not be less than honest to Louisa, now. Speaking slowly and with difficulty, as if picking her way through a complicated passage in a book, she answered: “No.”

Before Louisa could look too disappointed, she hurried on. “But I could. And before you ask, I do not believe he loves me either; however, what I believe-- is that he respects me. He knows me; possibly too well after this escapade, and he respects who I am.”

It was out, and she felt giddy, a little sick with the momentousness of it. Ridiculous as that was. It was not as if I said I loved him, she wondered. Why should this matter so much?

She risked a glance back to Louisa, knowing that she was flushed and jittery and generally exposing herself in a most unconscionable way. To her surprise, Louisa looked almost tearful. “Oh Linny,” she whispered, before turning her face to her pillow and weeping. Stricken, Caroline bent and embraced her sister, holding her close and smelling sweat-dampened sheets and weak tea and the scent that was incontrovertibly Louisa.

Neither of them said anything else for a minute. Louisa stopped sobbing but did not pull away from Caroline, who continued to grimly hold on, thinking with a vicious rage about the perpetually-absent Samuel Hurst, who had looked in on them only once in the past two days. She felt entirely helpless. 

“What can I do, Louie?” she asked at last, voice thready. “Give me a task to do.”

Louisa clutched at her, and leaned far away enough that she could see her face. “Little sister,” she said unsteadily. 

At that moment, Charles flung open the door and bounced carelessly in, carrying a silver tray and a steaming pot. “That took a deal longer than I thought, I am sorry,” he apologized. Then he noticed the tearstains on Louisa’s face. “Dearest,” he cried, putting the tray on a side table and coming to the bed. “You look worse; shall I fetch the doctor?”

Ceding her place to him, Caroline rose and walked shakily to the window, trying to call back her composure. Behind her she could hear Louisa calming Charles with a few sensible words. She should be doing something as well. What should she do?

“I want to have a dinner party here,” she heard Louisa say thoughtfully. Caroline blinked, turned. Abruptly, the correct course of action was clear. 

“You must be raving,” she observed. 

Louisa was not deterred. “You can host, Caroline. I won’t attend, of course, but it will allow our friends to come and inquire how I am. You must help, Charles.” 

Over the sound of his fervent assurances that he would do his best, Caroline stared narrowly at her sister. Louisa smiled at her. “And I will of course invite Colonel Fitzwilliam; you can thank him for his kind escort of Caroline to London.”

“Excellent notion!” Charles cried.

Caroline closed her mouth firmly on a scowl. There was no way she could reasonably object, although it was a foolish idea, to host a dinner in Louisa’s house without her. Perhaps she could persuade her to put it off until later in the month?

Catching her younger sister’s eye, Louisa said clearly, “I am going to be fine, very shortly. And while I am recovering, it would make me very--very happy, to have you arrange this little party. Life goes on, after all.”

They looked at each other. Caroline thought: it would make me happy to see the colonel again, no matter what came of it. I don’t know what would be the correct thing to do. I don’t know, truly, how he feels. But, courage.

“I agree with Charles,” she said steadily. “An excellent idea.”

END


End file.
